Chimes of Fat Cat's/Wart vs. Soup
by Jeff Wikstrom
Summary: Fat Cat returns (did he ever leave?) and Jiffy's soup thwarts Wart.


"The Chimes of Fat Cat's"  
or  
"Wart vs. Soup"  
  
Jeff Wikstrom  
  
This is a story that fits in off to the side (if at all). In it Jiffy and Claire (you remember them, right?) try to have a nice time at the casino, but encounter difficulties. It also features Poor Little Wart (he whines, and whines) and Fat Cat, and Noah, who is not a nice person. Originally (i.e., while it was entirely in my head) this was a subplot in a larger text. However, I have decided (not without reservations) to convert it to a stand-alone story, since it only really links up to the larger narrative at the end. Basically it's a weird little piece of text loosely (very loosely, to tell you the truth, and for reasons which are basically a private joke) based on secondary characters from an old cartoon show. But thank you for reading this far.  
  
The story can hardly be said to stand on its own; rather, it assumes familiarity with "Rat, Bat, Alligator-God," which in turn assumes "the Mole," which in turn assumes (the following are by John Nowak) "Sovereign, Part 1," which assumes "Icarus," which assumes "Under the Bridge," which assumes the ten-or-so year old TV kids' show "Chip n' Dale's Rescue Rangers." But let's pretend for the time being that you, the reader, are familiar with Chip n' Dale, and go into some what-has-gone-before specifics. Briefly, an alligator lives in the sewers under the lions outside the New York Public Library. Said alligator is named Sewer Al, and is served by a group of fanatic mice, called the Hands of Sewer Al. One of the Hands is named Noah. Noah has manipulated Wart into defying Fat Cat and seizing control of his casino. Noah has also forcibly recruited two service personnel, a waiter and a hostess, from the nearby underground mouse-metropolis Staten City to renovate the casino and improve customer service. I believe this is enough.  
  
I realize that our time together is brief, and so I'll hurry up and get to the text.  
  
1. JIFFY AND CLAIRE LOSE FAITH IN WART  
  
  
In the casino (now nameless, pending Wart coming up with something catchy) a russet fieldmouse with red hair and the traditionally matching disposition nervously sipped her iced coffee, and stared over the break room table. The squirrel across from her, dressed, like the mouse, in the black slacks and white shirt of his chosen profession, was drumming his hands against the tabletop and looking up at the ceiling, as if nothing was wrong.  
  
"Well?" she finally asked. "Jiffy!"  
  
"Hm?" Jiffy turned his friendly, open face towards her. "Yes, Claire?" he asked his coworker. "Is something the matter?"  
  
"What?!" Claire Dupont slammed her coffee cup down and leaped out of her chair. Full of nervous energy, she somersaulted once before landing lightly on her feet. "Tonight's the reopening! We've been working our kiesters off for two solid weeks now, putting up with some the least pleasant people I've ever had the misfortune to meet, I've slept in this room the past three nights, I missed Jill's birthday party last week --"  
  
"Jill?" Jiffy scratched his chin. He didn't think he knew a Jill.  
  
"Bindings's little'un. You remember Bindings, right?" Claire gesticulated madly, tracing the outline of a female mouse with one hand while waving her iced coffee about with the other.  
  
"Oh, uh, yes," Jiffy agreed mildly. "About so high, dark hair, glasses, handled the left side of the member's lounge Sunday through Thursday, back at the Ratisson." He hadn't known she had a daughter. "I didn't know she has a daughter... Did you really just say 'kiester?'"  
  
"Well, she does, and her name is Jill, and we really hit it off!" Claire responded, ignoring his question. "But that's beside the point! Tonight is the big reopening! We've had to work so hard for it, and I didn't even want to in the first place and --"  
  
"Hush!" Jiffy put one finger over his mouth in a shushing motion. "Mister Noah might be around," he whispered.  
  
"What if he is?" Claire asked defiantly. She stood up, and started bouncing on the balls of her feet, kinetics all overflowing.   
  
"I think he might be deeply hurt if he heard you say we didn't want to work for him and Mister Wart," Jiffy cautioned.   
  
This nearly silenced Claire. Neither of them wanted to think what might happen if Noah were made to feel offended or, worse, insulted. "Oh, don't get me started on Mr. 'Little Miss Angry Face' Wart..." she said halfheartedly, then trailed off, and they lapsed into silence.  
  
"Do you think we hired enough support staff for tonight?" she asked after a few seconds. "We don't really know how many people and... other people... are going to show."  
  
"I think so," Jiffy said. If worst came to worst he was confident he could don a black jacket and serve the entire crowd himself. "You see, we'll be sending around not two drinks carts, which has long been the downfall of oodles of promising enterprises, but three. This extra drinks cart will, gloriously, be a floater; it can..." He stopped when Claire started talking.  
  
"The thing about Mr. Wart is that he's stubborn. You remember Earl, the old lunch manager, right? I mean, when Earl made a stupid decision, like to have mock shrimp instead of shrimp without putting the change on the menus, when Earl did something dumb, he'd realize it and back down."  
  
"Yes, I remember," Jiffy agreed. "Now, in addition to the drinks cart, the support staff will be keeping watch here, here, and here." Jiffy had mentally transformed the tabletop into a map of the casino, and was pointing out trouble spots. "If there's any kind of excitement, we'll be on it lickety-split. The teams will keep their eyes wide-open and clear as they patrol under your guidance here, while I'll be over here in the kitchen, making sure the..." He stopped when Claire started talking again.  
  
"But Wart, I mean Mr. Wart, he just --"  
  
Wart appeared suddenly from the hallway outside the break room. "Hey now Little Miss Angry Face and Little Mister Waiter Squirrel," he said accusingly. "While you've been slacking and sleeping and drinking I've been working! Look here." He handed Jiffy a sheet of paper with a diagram scrawled untidily on it. "I've made up a plan for the seating tonight. See? Rows and rows of chairs for Mr. Gangland and Mr. Gangland's Underling."  
  
Jiffy looked it over. Wart's description was certainly accurate. "Uh, Mister Wart..." he began as Claire snatched the plans out of his hand and glanced over them.  
  
"There aren't any aisles," she said simply, casting a hateful stare in Wart's direction. "There have to be aisles."  
  
"What? Why, Miss Needlessly Hostile Angry-Faced Mouse?" Wart blinked down at the shorter mouse. "Why do you claim we must have aisles?!"  
  
"So the staff can hand out drinks and people can get up without climbing over one another," Claire responded impatiently. She studied the paper some more. "And these rows go flush to the walls. Aside from the problem of the people in the middle climbing over the people on the edges, how would anyone get to their seats at all?"  
  
"They're agile!" Wart answered stubbornly. "Get Snout and some of... your people --"  
  
"You mean the mice we hired for tonight?" Claire interrupted, not snapping his neck.  
  
"Yes, yes, your people, the mice. Get them to set out the chairs like this. Do it!" Wart turned and stormed out of the break room. Watching him leave, Claire picked up her coffee cup and broke it in her hand.  
  
"I really dislike him," she said as Jiffy started to pace back and forth. "You know, when I was a professional iguana/mouse translator for the United Nations I had to put up with a lot of irritable and stupid iguanas, but never one as bad as Mr. Wart."  
  
Jiffy said nothing, but continued to pace back and forth, his brow furrowed.  
  
"Well, I wasn't really acting in an official capacity," Claire reflected. "It was more like I was watching a PBS documentary about UN translators, but..." She stared up at the ceiling, remembering the program. "It was a pretty good show," she muttered to herself. "Not exactly one of their best, not like the one about Cleopatra, I know. But it was summer reruns on the networks and... Jiffy, did you ever watch PBS? Jiffy?"  
  
Jiffy remained silent.  
  
"Uh-oh," she said when she saw what he was doing. Jiffy pacing was not a good sign. "What are you thinking now?"  
  
Jiffy stopped, and turned to face her. "I think Mister Wart is standing between the Customer and the best possible service we can give the Customer," he said quietly.   
  
Claire felt a cold chill.  
  
"I'll just go have a word with him about that," he added.  
  
  
2. WART LEARNS SEWER AL'S PLANS HAVE CHANGED  
  
Wart was excited. He would have been giddy, if he had known what "giddy" meant. As it was he was just very excited. He'd been able to contain his glee, just barely, in the break room, in front of the Serving People. It was important not to look too excited in front of the Serving People.  
  
He almost danced through the casino floor. He would have liked to dance; Wart fancied himself an excellent dancer. But that might have keyed in the half-dozen mice Jiffy-the-one-who-wasn't-a-bundle-of-nerves had hired to clean up the main floor. Prickles, too, was out on the main floor, napping at the bar. So instead he skipped. Skipped carefully, and with dignity.  
  
The workmice sighed as they watched Mr. Wart trundle from the back rooms to the staircase. They didn't like Mr. Wart: he was simultaneously threatening and pathetic. "What are you doing, you warm-blooded lazy bums?" he would ask them, and they would explain, carefully, that they were cleaning the carpet. "Oh, so you say," he would say. "Little mousey slackers," he would add, under his breath.  
  
The carpet cleaners were slings, suspended from the ceiling at a very low altitude. The workmice lay on them, face down, their arms and heads sticking over the side. As the hammocks swung back and forth, they were treated to a close-up view of the rug and its attendant ecosystem. With brushes and disinfectant, they slowly and carefully scrubbed each small section of carpet. It took about two mouse-hours to do one square foot, but by the end, that carpet was _clean_.  
  
Much like their current supervisor, Jiffy, the workmice took a certain special pride in their work, one difficult for an outsider to comprehend. They resented outsiders disparaging the process, and they disliked Wart because of that. Wart could tell they didn't like him, but, as he was not an employee of the Sunshine Spotless Carpet Cleaning Company (late of Staten City), he didn't know why.  
  
Nonetheless he felt it was important to maintain dignity before them, and so he merely sedately skipped his way to the staircase. Gravely he scurried up it, calmly he opened the door at the top of the stairs and somberly he oozed through it. Then he danced down the hallway into Fat Cat's office. His office, now.  
  
"Hello, Wart," someone said in a light, cheery voice. There was someone sitting at Fat Cat's desk, in Fat Cat's chair that spun around. "Nice day," he added amiably.  
  
Noah was not large. He was in fact just below average mouse size. There was almost always a dopey-looking smile on his face, and his eyes were little and piggy. He wore nothing but a sweater, colored the dark green of the Hands. It marked him as one of Sewer Al's agents in the rodent-and-sundry world. The ultimate effect, someone more worldly than Wart might have said, was not unlike a children's television show host who was also the head of a major drug cartel.  
  
Wart's good mood vanished. His first thought was to blurt out "What are you doing here?" but his second thought was that that wouldn't go over very well. He considered his options for a second, and realized Noah was talking. Wart had missed the beginning, what with the thinking and the second thoughts and all.  
  
"...doing is, heh, I came over here to go over a couple of things with you. You've got a great sense of humor, Wart." Noah lifted his hand to his face, as if to adjust his sunglasses. He wasn't wearing any sunglasses, however, and the hand quickly dropped back down.  
  
"Oh?" Wart tried. He really did make an effort to keep from sounding like he'd lost the will to live. But Noah just did that to him, every single time.  
  
"'What are you doing here?'" Noah mimicked. "All gruff and frightened. Cute. Anyway," he continued as Wart's heart sunk even lower, "like I was saying, I wanted to talk to you about tonight and the ground rules the Al has given me to pass on to you."  
  
"Yes?" Wart slowly lowered himself into a chair. Not the one that spun around and if you sat in it, that meant you were in charge. One of the other ones. The ones that didn't spin around.  
  
"Well, for starters, you'll recall that the original plan was to funnel eighty percent of the gross into expenses, pay you out of the remaining ten percent, and the Al keeps the rest. We've been going over the accounts... thank you, by the way..."  
  
"What? I didn't give you any of Fat Cat's ledgers." Wart wiped his brow.  
  
"No, not exactly," Noah answered smoothly, "but the accounts room wasn't very locked. Anyhow, I've been going over the books, and it looks like that eighty percent is going to have to be closer to ninety, so I figured the easiest thing to do would just be to not pay you. At least, not to start out with."  
  
"Not... pay... me...?" Wart leaped out of his chair. "What are you --"  
  
"Sit Down, Wart." The words hung in the air. Wart sat.  
  
"As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted," Noah continued, sounding like a chthonic Messenger of the Outer Gods with hurt feelings, "it's the only reasonable option. You see that, don't you? It's not like you need the money -- you can just eat sandwiches or bugs or whatever it is you eat; you can just get them from the kitchen. And you sleep here already, no problem. What do you need money for?"  
  
"Erhm, I guess, when you put it like that..." Oh, poor little Wart, Poor Little Wart thought to himself. These things always happened to him...  
  
"Okay, good, we're back on the same page." Noah unrelaxed a little bit more. "Now, there's a second thing. I'm afraid it's not good news..." He looked pained.  
  
At this point Wart was ready for anything. "Yes?"  
  
"I'm very sorry, but the Al has plans for me, and I'm not going to be able to meet with you or oversee any of our people or anything tonight. It's going to be tough, I know," Noah said quickly, "but you'll get by somehow."  
  
"Really?" Wart made himself sound upset.  
  
"I'll still be around for an hour or two, but by opening I'll definitely be elsewhere." Noah sighed and shook his head. "In fact, if you'll excuse me, I need to make a telephone call. That's all." The Hand of Sewer Al coughed politely, hopped out of the swivel chair, and exited via the window.  
  
"Bye now!" Wart heard him say from the ledge outside.  
  
The manager of the Unnamed Casino sat there, more than a little stunned, as he tried to piece together the situation he was in. Was it good, because Noah wouldn't be around, or was it bad, because Noah wouldn't be around?  
  
  
3. NOAH REPORTS IN  
  
Snout sat on the rooftop, staring lazily up at the sky, and reflected. He had a lot to be thankful for. Mole too, but of course Mole didn't realize it. Not like Snout; Snout knew he'd been blessed, and he counted himself lucky.  
  
It was possible Prickles was aware he was lucky. Snout didn't really care. He didn't get along too well with Prickles, that taciturn denizen of the casino's back rooms. During the past couple of days, in fact, Snout and Prickles had started getting along even worse. Yesterday afternoon, Snout had discovered Prickles sleeping -- sleeping on the job! -- in conference room number three, as bold as brass. Everyone knew Snout took his afternoon nap in conference room three! It had reached a point where Snout was almost tempted to say something to him about it.   
  
Almost, but not quite. Snout was no genius, but he knew better than to pick a fight with a porcupine. It was, after all, a small price to pay. Here had a steady supply of food and warmth, Mole to boss around, and he was enough bigger than Wart that his "boss" didn't dare ask him to do anything. Yes, indeed. This was what Snout called living. He sighed in a satisfied manner.  
  
As such he really didn't want to do anything that might break up his happy little home, so Snout took pains not to be noticed by Noah. It wasn't that Snout was afraid of Noah, exactly. Snout prided himself on being afraid only of things half his size or larger, and Noah didn't quite fit that description. But all the same, Noah creeped him out. He kept doing strange things.  
  
For example, Snout reflected, he'd climbed down from the window to Fat Cat's old office cunningly concealed in the overbite of the giant metal cat they'd built the casino out of. Then he'd run to the edge of the rooftop and leaped off. Snout had only saw him because he happened to be outside, taking a smoking break. And that, after all, was weird. Usually people came in or out through the door.  
  
  
Noah landed lightly on the fire escape, his legs already moving. He dashed down the metal stairs, no mean feat for a mouse, not stopping until he'd reached the bottom, several feet over a trash bin. He fell limply into the garbage, relying on his low mass and high air resistance to protect him. It took him just a few minutes to he make it all the way to the edge of the bin, climb out, drop down, and run out the alley to the telephone booth on the corner.  
  
(Most mice don't use the telephone. There are several good reasons for this. The obvious one is that mice are too small to easily manipulate the cumbersome handpiece and thick buttons. Following up on this are mice's noted lack of change and the way anything they say invariably come out as squeaks to anyone on the other end who isn't also a mouse-or-sundry. But there's another, even better reason, and that is this: most mice don't have anyone to call. A typical mouse knows the rest of the mice in his or her nest, and sees them every day. They aren't especially interested in making new friends outside the nest, and the ones that they do, after all, they can easily meet face to face. Mice in Staten City, the last surviving great city-state, form an exception to this, of course, but at last estimate they made up less than one percent of the worldwide mouse population.  
  
The practical upshot of this is that no one ever sees a mouse using a telephone. It's just common sense. And because of this, Noah was free to be as blatant in his use of the telephone booth as he liked. No one would notice. It's a bit like the way no one ever notices the Ranger Wing, Ranger Plane, or that all the mice are wearing clothes.)  
  
Noah dialed the number (toll-free, of course) and in a matter of seconds...  
  
"Hello? How are you?"  
  
"'Actually, I've been feeling kind of run-down lately.'"  
  
"'You know what they say, everyone gets older.'"  
  
"'Time is a river.'"  
  
"'Not unlike the Mississippi.'"  
  
"'No one ever claimed there was a "Father Mississippi," though.'"  
  
"'What about Old Man River?'"  
  
"'Shut up,'" Noah concluded, completing the complex sign-and-countersign.  
  
"Right, Noah. What's the situation?"  
  
"I've just left the casino and am ready to serve the Al in an exciting and new capacity," he responded.  
  
Miles away and hundreds of feet down, Eli made a note. "Staten," he said after a moment. "There's still the Staten project to be done."  
  
"Seth is working on that, right?" Noah asked. "Good ol' Seth."  
  
"Uh... yes. Yes, he is. You can meet him... on Fleet Street."  
  
"Will do!" Noah said enthusiastically. "Anything else?"  
  
  
Snout stretched. It was time for him to find some food. There was probably something in the kitchen. He stood up, dusted the grit from the tar of the rooftop out of his hide, and kicked Mole.  
  
"Hey!" Mole rolled over. "What was that for?"  
  
"That was for waking you up," Snot said. "C'mon, time to get some food."  
  
"I wasn't asleep," Mole protested as he followed Snout inside. "I was thinking."  
  
Snout thoughtfully did not slam the door in Mole's face. "Thinking, huh?" he asked. He was in a good mood.  
  
"Yes, I was thinking," Mole said defensively. He sidestepped a pair of carpet-cleaners, ignorant of the hour's work he had just ruined by tracking grit onto the carpet. "I was thinking about the boss."  
  
Snout quickly looked around. Workmice in carpet-cleaners, cleaning the carpet. Prickles, asleep at the bar... no Wart or Noah around. "What about him?" he asked warily.  
  
"Do you think he misses us?" Mole asked him. "I miss him," he added, and sighed.  
  
Considerately, Snout hit Mole on the head. "Feel better?" he asked.  
  
Mole considered. "Kinda," he admitted. "But it's just not the same, it's not."  
  
"C'mon," Snout said decisively. "Kitchen. Breakfast. Cheer you right up." Frankly, Snout didn't care one way or the other how Mole felt, but the casino wasn't opening for hours yet and he had nothing better to do. He whistled a cheery tune as he led Mole past the banks of slots and the rows of tables towards the deep kitchens.  
  
  
4. JIFFY AND CLAIRE CONTEMPLATE OVERTHROWING WART  
  
Claire was starting to regret having that iced coffee. The caffeine was shooting her nerves all to heck, and in the wake of Jiffy's chilly announcement she needed her nerves at the peak of unshot stability. Claire didn't normally drink this much coffee. She was all out of sorts from the excitement.  
  
"All out of sorts, huh? Probably because of the excitement," Jiffy said as he sat back down at the table. "First I'll need to decide on a tack to take."  
  
"No," Claire said, a little too quickly. "I've just drunk too much iced coffee."  
  
"It's decaf." Jiffy had gotten a pencil stub and a notepad from somewhere. He was scribbling something down. "Surely an appeal to customer service..."  
  
"Really?" Claire was impressed. "Tasted just like the usual." She leaned forward, trying to see what he was writing.  
  
"Your usual is also decaf. 'Claire's Usual: decaffeinated coffee, allowed to stand for fifteen minutes, then chilled, and served 80% pure in a tall glass over ice. The balance of the drink is made up with milk. No sugar.' Check this out," Jiffy said, abruptly switching tracks. He showed her what he had been working on.  
  
Claire was stunned. "You're kidding!"  
  
"No, I think that if I can just get to him while he's in a good mood, I can get him going on Total Quality..."  
  
"My usual is decaf?! Why didn't you tell me?"  
  
"The only problem -- I thought you knew; it's _your_ usual, after all -- the only problem is getting rid of..."  
  
"Ah. Him." Claire made a motion with her hands she hoped resembled Mr. Noah.  
  
"Yes. You know how he is. So... Among other lines, we really need to come up with some kind of name for the restaurant," Jiffy said. He flipped the paper over and began making a list of names.  
  
Claire frowned. "Casino," she said.  
  
Jiffy looked up. "Yes, I know it's a casino," he said. "I meant something more, you know, distinctive. Like 'the Tickety-Boo Casino of Splendiferous Neatness and Delights,' or maybe a non sequiter, like 'Siddhartha.'"   
  
She shook her head. "No no no... I mean you said 'restaurant' a second ago, instead of 'casino.' What do you mean, 'Siddhartha?'"  
  
"Did I? Fancy that," he said quickly. "I mean like 'Luxor' or 'Excalibur' or 'Circus Circus.' When you think 'Excalibur,' you don't think 'place of gambling,' right? You think of something big covered with chrome that will run you over if you're not careful..."  
  
"No no no," Claire repeated. "'Excalibur' they mean there is King Arthur's sword, not a car. That's why it's shaped like a castle."  
  
Jiffy blinked. "What are you talking about?!" he asked incredulously.  
  
"Jiffy..." Claire said.  
  
"I mean, here I am talking about the casino, trying to get some work done--"  
  
"Jiffy..."  
  
"And you're all 'let's talk about King Arthur, and cars.' Blah blah blah," Jiffy said, making a face. "I just don't understand you sometimes. How can you be so unfocused, especially --"  
  
"Jiffy..."  
  
"Especially at a time like this, with everything happening tonight and all... I just don't understand."  
  
"Jiffy!"  
  
"Yes, Claire?" Jiffy asked brightly.  
  
Inwardly, Claire sighed. On the one hand, she knew that Jiffy was under a great deal of stress. On the other hand, she was under stress, too, and you didn't see her making annoying comments like this. "A name for the casino."  
  
"Oh, yes. Well, at this point it doesn't really matter, because all the napkins and glasses and things are just blank, and the chips all still say 'Fat Cat's,' but..." Jiffy tapped his pencil stub on the tabletop. "Of course, it is _shaped_ like a big fat cat. I'm just throwing lumps of batter on the griddle here, Claire, looking to see what will sizzle."  
  
"ARGH!" Claire suddenly screamed, and began pounding her head against the table.  
  
"Claire! Claire! Calm down!" Jiffy tried to grab her, which, years later, he decided was probably the third most ridiculously foolish thing he'd ever done in his life.  
  
Claire had stopped by the time Jiffy had picked himself up off the floor. She had her face in her hands and was sniffling. He considered trying to comfort her, but didn't want to risk letting his neck get so close to her hands.  
  
"Why why why can't i be like normal people and have a normal job with a lot of wacky coworkers and an eccentric boss and maybe a lot of cute outfits like on newsradio why do i have to work with one coworker who has like gone right through wacky and come out the other side and a bunch of other losers and one boss who acts like mister rogers if mister rogers had eaten the puppets or something and another who would get lost in his own office," Jiffy heard her say. Obviously the stress was getting to her.  
  
"Eaten the puppets?" he asked her. Claire ignored him, and continued to mew softly to herself, banging her head against the table.  
  
"Don't mind if I do," Snout said as he entered Mole in tow. "Where are they? What flavor poppins?"  
  
"why why why..."  
  
"What's a poppin?" Mole asked.  
  
"Excuse me," Jiffy said to no one in particular.  
  
"why why why..."  
  
"It's like a Pop-Tart, but chewy," Snout theorized. "Got chocolate-flavored?"  
  
"No, I--" Jiffy began.  
  
"why why why..."  
  
"But I want chocolate," Snout said, and smiled menacingly.  
  
"I am most assure-ed-ally certain we don't have any--"  
  
"Saving them all for yourself, huh? Figures! You little squirse are all the same..." Snout picked Jiffy up with one hand, to make his point.  
  
"why why why..." Claire was determinedly ignoring them.  
  
"I come in here at the end of a long day--"  
  
"It's only ten thirty in the morning," Jiffy interrupted. His feet were nearly an inch off the floor.  
  
"And all I want," Snout continued, oblivious, "is a nice chocolate poppin. And what do you have to say? 'No, Snout, we're all out of chocolate poppins,'" he whined. "Well, I ain't buying it!" Angrily, he shook Jiffy until the squirrel's teeth rattled.  
  
"why why why..."  
  
"Claaaire!" Jiffy squealed. He didn't like being shaken.  
  
"Then how about a candy bar?" Mole asked, diplomatically.  
  
Claire stopped banging her head against the table. "Put him down, please," she said wretchedly, as if even death would be a release.  
  
"Make me a poppin!" Snout countered, and shook Jiffy for emphasis.  
  
"The-the-there's no-oh-oh-oh... su-uh-uh-ch thi-i-i-ing..." Jiffy protested. "You ju-uh-uh-uh-st... ma-ay-ay-ade thewordup!"  
  
Sighing, every movement obviously a source of pain, Claire rose to her feet. "C'mon," she said half-heartedly. "Be a sport?"  
  
"I want a poppin," Snout replied, stubbornly.  
  
"Okay, sure, whatever. Jiffy will make you a poppin if you put him down," Claire said, rolling her eyes.  
  
"Really?" he asked suspiciously.  
  
Claire winced. "No, not--" She was interrupted by Jiffy, whom Snout was still shaking.  
  
"Ye-eh-eh-es ofcourseI'llmakeyoupoppinsjustletmedown!" He was close to tears.  
  
"What? I can't understand you," Snout said. He set Jiffy down.  
  
Claire picked up her coffee mug and Jiffy's coffee mug, now both empty, and began to juggle them with one hand. With her other hand, she scratched her nose. "In 1742, the European exploitation of the incredible wealth of the Americas was into its third century, and many of the new technologies stimulated by the trans-Atlantic traffic were reaching maturity. In Switzerland, a confectioner named Albert Heinz applied his knowledge and understanding of chocolate and its interactions with pastry to create his masterwork. This new type of pastry, known today as the poppin, combined the crisp outer layer of the better-known pfefferine with the chewy, nougat-laced interior of the cinnamon milgilfin. Though it has never reached the preeminence of, say, bunt cake, the poppin holds a special place in the hearts of many confectioners and pastry chefs."  
  
"Really?" Mole asked excitedly.  
  
"Ha! Told you!" Snout poked Jiffy in the chest and loomed over him.  
  
"No, not really, Mole. There's no such thing as poppins," she said, hoping the display of manual dexterity would scare Snout off.  
  
"Candy bar?" Mole asked hopefully.  
  
"No, Mole," Claire said firmly, and shook her head.  
  
"You might be thinking of popovers," Jiffy offered. He had backed around the table to behind Claire, who had added a pair of forks to her routine and was also hopping up and down on one foot. She didn't seem to be enjoying it, though.  
  
"Poppin," Snout said decisively. He wasn't going to be frightened of a fieldmouse less than half his size.  
  
"No such thing," Jiffy said sadly.  
  
"Then somebody owes me a..."  
  
"Wait a minute! Wait just a minute! Everybody be quiet now!" Claire suddenly straightened up and took in the room afresh, her eyes taking in each of them in turn. Though she ignored the crashing sound of utensils and stoneware hitting the floor, Claire did take the time to hop onto the table and hoot triumphantly. "I think things have just gotten decidedly... wacky!"  
  
This seemed to please her to no end, but it didn't exactly get Mole his candy bar or Snout his mythical pastry.  
  
  
5. FAT CAT GETS READY TO MAKE TROUBLE  
  
About a thousand miles away it was raining.  
  
One thousand miles doesn't seem like the tremendous distance it once did, in these days of trains, planes, and automobiles, but put it into perspective: a human being would take about a month of steady walking, ten hours a day, to travel that far. For a mouse it would be much higher.  
  
One thousand miles is roughly the distance from Paris to Stockholm. It's about a third of the distance between the farthest extents of the Roman Empire. It is about the distance between the Gulf of Mexico and the Hudson River. And it was, at the moment, the distance between Fat Cat and Fat Cat's.  
  
"Mepps," Fat Cat said, "one of the most important pieces of advice Mother ever gave me was on the importance of family."   
  
He paused. Fat Cat enjoyed putting long pauses in his speeches; he felt they gave him a cool, analytical, reflective air. Mepps did not say anything. Fat Cat closed his eyes and inhaled, smelling the fast-food and damp garbage from the restaurant to the left, the fumes from the gas station to the right, and steam rising from the hot state highway behind them. He was wearing the same suit he'd had on when he and Mepps had stormed out of Central Park. It was damp, now, though.  
  
"And so," he continued, "it pains me to see wrong come to a member of my family. And I do think of you as a member of my family, Mepps. It would be foolish of me to do otherwise, since we share our parents." He turned away from Mepps and began pacing slowly back and forth. "You are my brother, I will, if pressed, admit."  
  
Mepps remained silent. They were standing, the two of them, a short distance from Georgia as the crow flies, only a bit further from Alabama. It was warm, warm to the point of hot but not quite, and balmy, very balmy. Mepps had felt all day as if he were standing (all right, lying or sitting, mostly) in a cloudbank. Dew was sticking to everything, Mepps and Fat Cat included. A few puddles were slowly collecting on the cracked cement of the parking lot. The sandy soil along the road was slowly turning to mud.  
  
"Although, truth to tell, you were the runt of the litter. And they do say, do they not, that the runt of the litter doesn't really count?" Fat Cat paused again. "I don't know, Mepps. But I do know this: I can't abide to watch you suffer, day in, day out, trapped in a world you never made while the universe expands carelessly around you."  
  
Mepps's eyes grew wide, but he didn't open his mouth. He couldn't if he wanted to -- the duct tape made sure of that. (It was drizzling, too. Big, warm, loose drops hurtled suicidal from out the sky. Up above the clouds were low-hanging, dark, heavy. The sun had gone down, but it hadn't really gotten dark: a brownish glow from the streetlights below reflected off the clouds, and off the rain.)  
  
"Do you think I'm trying to be, I don't know, funny? Wacky? Postmodern? ...I asked you a question, Mepps." Fat Cat said, suddenly turning to face him. Mepps shook his head no. "You're just saying that because you don't want me to kill you, aren't you?" Mepps started to nod, then quickly shook his head again. Fat Cat sighed. He extended and retracted his claws, once.  
  
"I'm not going to kill you, Mepps; you are, after all, one of those cats lucky enough to share my parents and birthday. Hard it is to believe I know, yes. Total strangers looking at us would say 'lo! and here before mine eyes is one excellent specimen of all that is feline, and one thing-which-clearly-is-no-cat, possibly a walking dishrag.'" Fat Cat leaned into Mepps's face and whispered "I got the good genes, Mepps. Not an apology, not a boast, just an observation." He made a clucking sound with his tongue. Mepps did not respond.  
  
In one smooth motion Fat Cat ripped the duct tape off Mepps. It had already been somewhat loose, both from the humidity and from the unclean nature of Mepps's face. Mepps yowled.  
  
"I'm not going to kill you, Mepps," Fat Cat said again, firmly. "I am tired, so tired, so tired I may well lie down and die if not relieved of this burden. This burden, my brother. I promised Mother that I would take care of you. No longer."  
  
Mepps still said nothing, but he took a step back. Myopic eyes scanned Fat Cat's features in a bootless attempt to glean some kind of meaning from them.   
  
Speaking slowly and carefully, so Mepps would be sure to understand, Fat Cat looked deep into his brother's eyes and explained. "I... am going... away. You... are staying... here. Eat... old... cheeseburgers." He pointed to the big trash bin behind the restaurant. "Have fun."  
  
"But..." Mepps wasn't sure how to respond. How could he be expected to fend for himself? Who could he go to for help if he needed it? Where would he sleep? Why here, since here wasn't someplace he'd ever been before? When would he... Would he see Fat Cat again? What would he do if he had a splinter?  
  
Fat Cat looked at him expectantly then turned away when Mepps lapsed back into silence. He waved good-bye over his shoulder, then ran to the gas station, where (in a few minutes) a truck would take him to the Mobile airport, and from there it wouldn't be hard to get back to the city, where he belonged.  
  
He'd left Wart to his own devices when the lizard had started to grow uppity. It had been more or less a snap decision, but Fat Cat didn't regret it. He hadn't gotten to where he was today by allowing those lucky enough to be working under him to get ideas. Granted, where he was _today_ was a gas station a few hundred yards from the Gulf of Mexico, but...  
  
Soon, he would come to Wart's rescue. He'd have to listen to Poor Little Wart whine about how badly he had fared without Fat Cat's guidance, and that would get old after a while. But it was a small price to pay for Wart's renewed loyalty. Not that Wart was a real find, by any means, but Fat Cat had spent years training him, and didn't want to have to start over. In the chronic absence of competent help, Fat Cat had learned to make do. Although incompetence could, in certain and particular cases, eventually grow utterly intolerable. There was indeed a limit to the outrageous fortunes which could be borne by man, mouse, or cat.  
  
Other than that, he did not once think of Mepps, the whole trip.  
  
  
6. POOR LITTLE WART AND JIFFY ALMOST ARGUE  
  
Poor Little Wart was currently in a foul mood. First Noah had left him, left him the lurch, and now Mister Idiot Waiter-Boy Irritating Stupid Squirrel Jiffy was... hassling him! Did he not realize which of them was the employee, and which the... the one who employed the employee? The employifier! The employifier did not want to be spoken to in this manner! The only good thing that had happened all that was   
  
Irritating Jiffy tapped his foot expectantly. "Well?" he demanded of Poor Little Wart.  
  
"What are you babbling about?" PLW asked him. "What is it now, Irritating Jiffy?"  
  
Irritating Jiffy sighed in a theatrical manner clearly calculated to demonstrate his hostility to PLW and undermine PLW's authority in the casino. "The menu for tonight is still incomplete," he repeated. "We don't have a soup course. I know, I know: we don't, strictly speaking, need a soup course. But as I've been saying, saying for a week now, it can't hurt. This is what I have been trying to say: everything that makes the customer feel satisfied and catered to, everything that we as humble servants can do to improve their lives and grant them the dining... and gaming... pleasure they deserve, everything that enhances the Total Quality Experience of, uh..." IJ trailed off, as if searching for the words. "Of this establishment..."  
  
The fool. The miserable foolish miserly fool. "Feh," PLW said, cleverly. "We are not here to make them happy. They come in..." PLW suddenly remembered something Fat Cat had once said about the casino, and used it. "They come in, and they sit down, and they give us all their money, and then they stand up again and they leave. That is what they do." He groped for a summation. "We are in business to take away all their money, not to make them happy!"  
  
Irritating Jiffy winced and shuddered. "But... but..." he sputtered, at a loss for words. Plainly he could not counter PLW's winning argument.  
  
"Feh," PLW said again, angrily and in a concludatory tone.  
  
"I need to sit down," IJ mumbled. He collapsed into one of the chairs that did not spin around. "But... I... " The pile of Wart-angering-squirrelness shook his head in bewilderment.   
  
"Why are you still here?" PLW demanded.  
  
"No, look," IJ said, waving his hands. "Be reasonable, be reasonable." He pulled a fetid piece of paper with foolish little scribblings on it from out of his jacket, and began pointing to it. "Okay, see, the..."  
  
"Reasonable? Reasonable!" PLW spit the word. "Reasonable would be you leaving. Reasonable would be you doing your job! Reasonable would be you not being in here in Fat Cat's office -- my office -- demanding unreasonable... things!" IJ winced again under PLW's assault.  
  
"Okay," IJ repeated, more to himself than to PLW. "Okay."  
  
"You come in here, and you are all 'ooh! i will be unreasonable!' and then you are demanding I be reasonable?! I am reasonable! I am very reasonable! I am..." PLW searched his mind, trying to find another word besides reasonable that meant the same thing as reasonable. "Reasonable."  
  
"Okay," IJ said. "How about this? I leave your office now, and we stop talking about this, and you stop saying," he continued, his voice rising to a shriek, "those _horrible_ things about our _customers_?!"  
  
"Yes, fine, whatever," PLW snapped. "Just get out of Fat Cat's office. My office, I mean. It's my office now."  
  
Wart the Assertive leaned back in the special chair and sneered at Pathetic Jiffy as he rose out of one of the ordinary chairs and slowly slouched out of the room. "Heh heh heh," he said. He put his feet up on the desk, only barely managing to overpower the springs enough for this to be possible. "Heh heh heh," he repeated, and relaxed.  
  
The springs revenged themselves, the evil hateful things, and Poor Little Wart shot forward onto the desk.  
  
  
"It was horrible, Claire," Jiffy said a few minutes later in the kitchen. "He just kept saying these horrible, unfantastic and super-non-good things... I couldn't take it any more."   
  
"There, there," Claire said sympathetically. If she had been closer, she would have patted him reassuringly on the back, but she was thirsty.  
  
"So I've been reasonable. I've been more than totally superreasonable about the whole thing..."  
  
"I've always thought you a very reasonable squirrel," Claire agreed empathetically as she hunted for a glass. Wow, she thought, I *am* a good actress! I sound so sincere!  
  
"So there's nothing left for it but to throw him out. I've tried talking to him, I've tried being reasonable and understanding and free with the compliments and deferment..." Jiffy wiped his nose with a napkin. "But he just isn't listening. He's an unpleasant, poorly-managering talliaferric lizard not fit to run this fine establishment! In times such as this our duty are service personnel becomes Depression-glass-clear. We've got to act, Claire!"  
  
"Very unpleasant," Claire said sagaciously. Glass (an old-fashioned, etched with Fat Cat's profile) in hand, she turned on the tap and prepared her water. "I... wait a minute, what are you proposing?" The glass was full, wonderfully full of wet, cool, lovely water. Claire turned to face Jiffy, taking a deep draught as she did so. It was good. "Throw him out?"  
  
Jiffy straightened up. He rubbed his eyes, then stuck his chin out imperiously. "Yes," he said simply. "Mr. Wart is forming an obstacle between the customer and the best possible service. He must be... eliminated."  
  
"What?!" Despite herself, Claire took a step back and almost fell into the sink. "You aren't going to kill him, are you?"   
  
"No, no, of course not. But see..."  
  
  
7. THE EXTRA HELP ARRIVES  
  
They came, a dozen of them: small and furtive, out of the morning sun. They came, a dozen of them: nervous glances into the domed ceiling of the sky, impossibly bright. They came, a dozen of them: in black slacks and white shirts, dressed to serve. They came, a dozen of them, from under Staten. Staten City, then afflicted with myriad troubles. Staten, where all light was artificial. Staten, the last vestige of antebellum mouse civilization in the dark years after the War. Staten, propped up from the ashes only by dint of effort. They came from Staten and her troubles; they blinked a great deal.  
  
Jiffy had hired them, of course. Wart hadn't wanted to bring in any more rodents than those the Hand forced on him, but Jiffy had never met Fat Cat and so his Stalinesque specter didn't hover over the squirrel's every thought. There was no question, for Jiffy, of what would Fat Cat think. He believed the casino was no longer Fat Cat's business.  
  
Thus, the mice and rats and chipmunks from out of Staten. Jiffy had called for them, interviewed them, ultimately hired them: this had all happened weeks before, before Staten had her time of troubles. Still, they were Jiffy's subordinates, hand-picked for their contentiousness, and so they came nonetheless. If they seemed a little worn along the edges, no one mentioned it. If they felt ill at ease, overcome with concern for their battered city and her dying dream, they said nothing.  
  
The dozen out of Staten came.  
  
Prickles answered the pounding on the front door. He sidestepped the workmice in their slings nimbly, managing not to skewer any of them (except the fat one, who rubbed him the wrong way anyhow). One hand was in a fist and cocked behind the door, ready to swat whatever came through, the other was on the latch.  
  
The thug opened the door and squinted out into the bright sunshine. He glowered at the mice-and-sundry in their dirty clothing. They looked like the sort of people who worked at diners and cafes and bars and grills, if they had been dragged through a hedge backwards. They weren't Prickles's kind of people. His glare took on an expectant manner.  
  
"Jiffy?" one of them asked. "We're looking for Jiffy," he added, to make it clear he knew the spiny monster was not Jiffy.  
  
Prickles considered, then pointed into the casino. He considered telling the dusty, grimy mice-and-sundry not to bear down on the freshly-cleaned carpet, but decided that would be too much trouble. He watched the dozen out of Staten file into the casino, and closed the heavy door behind them.  
  
He pointed again, to the doorway in the back of the casino which led to the kitchens, to Jiffy and Claire. Once more, Prickles considered warning them (this time, a warning against antagonizing anyone larger than a mouse), but decided not to bother.  
  
They nodded to him, and they marched in single file past the bar and the slots and the grand staircase and the dance floor and the dining area, toward the kitchens and break room. They were out of Staten; the casino's opulent gaudiness did not shake or shock them. But even if they had been impressed by the splendor of the casino, they would not have shown it.  
  
  
Snout was in the break room, torn between starting his afternoon nap and finding some more pastries. On the one hand, he had worked hard all morning: walking around, avoiding Wart and Noah, arguing with Prickles, threatening Jiffy... but on the other hand, he hadn't had anything to eat al day, not counting breakfast and the Pop-Tarts he'd browbeaten out of Jiffy. It was a tough choice.  
  
"Y'know, Mole, life is full of tough choices," Snout said as he leaned back against the wall and propped his feet up on the break room table.  
  
"Huh?" Mole replied. He, too, was sitting at the break room table, his short feet not quite touching the floor. Mole was leaning forward; his elbows were on the table and his hands were propping up his chin. The vacant expression on his face indicated to Snout that his thoughts were many miles away.  
  
"I'll tell you what I mean," Snout offered generously, "if you run over to the kitchen and fetch some Pop-Tarts, then get my napping pillow out of the conference room."  
  
A look of dull cunning crossed Mole's features. "What's in it for me?" he asked slyly.  
  
"I won't hit you as hard."  
  
Mole was still mulling this over when a weathered mouse stuck her head through the open door. Big eyes peered through round, dirty glasses. "Jiffy?" she asked.  
  
"What?! Where?" Mole straightened up and jerked his head toward the door. "Where?" he repeated.  
  
She was moderately cute. "Hey there," Snout said, his voice oily. "How you doing? What's your name?"  
  
"Um..." The mouse adjusted her glasses and took a step back. "My name is Bindings. I'm looking for an eccentric squirrel named Jiffy. Or an engaging mouse named Claire."  
  
"What's the holdup? Where are they?" A chorus of male voices behind her. Other men were talking to her, asking her questions. Snout knew what that meant: she knew other men. Other, inevitably better, men. He didn't know why he bothered.   
  
"In the kitchen," Snout muttered, and pointed. Bindings nodded nervously, and closed the door.  
  
Snout sighed theatrically as he listened to them march past.  
  
  
"Claire?"  
  
"Bindings?"  
  
"Claire!"  
  
"Bindings!"  
  
"Yes, you're here, you're all here, that's great, that's excellent, we need to get to work on the double," Jiffy said. Bindings, who had been about to tell 'Aunt Claire' the latest story of the incredible doings of her incredibly talented and intelligent daughter, Jill the Wonder Child, scowled. Then she smiled, because she needed the job, badly, and besides, she knew Jiffy well enough to forgive his eccentricities.  
  
Jiffy gestured the other eleven hires, who had been waiting cautiously in the hallway, into the kitchen. "It's good to see you all," he said quickly. "But we must dispense with the pleasantries and the greetings and stories about the children. Rally round, people. We have things to discuss."  
  
The dozen out of Staten rallied round.  
  
8. FAT CAT CONTINUES TO PREPARE  
  
Flight 271, Mobile AL to New York NY, touched down fifteen minutes ahead of schedule, a minor miracle in itself. Fat Cat would have preferred first-class accommodations, but had realized that was untenable, and had instead slipped aboard with the luggage. Experience had warned him of troubles of air pressure and temperature; Fat Cat was no one's fool. Air travel was tricky, but not impossible.  
  
First, he would need underlings. Then, information. Fat Cat had no idea what the situation at his casino was. Wart might have abandoned the place, for all he knew. Or maybe he was running it into the ground. Or possibly Wart had found someone else to boss him around, and this new entity was in charge of Fat Cat's. All these possible scenarios demanded different approaches, different tactics. But all of these possible tactics held a single fact in common: first, Fat Cat would need new underlings.  
  
Since he wanted the situation resolved as quickly as possible, Fat Cat was not going to bother with forming a "well-balanced party" of mixed species. No, to act quickly he would need to restrict himself to that which was most and most cheaply available: rats. Rats were free and plentiful.  
  
  
Piebald was, in fact, piebald. He was a young, medium-sized rat, dark brown mostly, with thin white fur on his chest and abdomen. His parents immigrated from the ruins of Rodent Paris before he was born, and they'd had trouble learning English and adapting. Piebald himself couldn't speak any French at all; they'd been careful to break all ties with the old culture and worked to keep it from their children. But this was the reason for his name: when he was born, their vocabulary of American names was limited, and they had been forced to carry him around to strangers, asking them for a descriptor.  
  
Piebald grew up hard. It wasn't easy, being not only piebald but named Piebald: he fought constantly. At the same time, his relationship with his parents was badly strained, since he held them responsible for the name. First chance he got, Piebald fled their hole and his siblings. He'd tried calling himself John or Bill or Harvey, but eventually realized he'd grown to like the attention the odd name gave him, sort of like "a Boy Named Sue."  
  
This attitude, more than anything else, explains why it was Piebald who rose to the top of the gang's hierarchy, why it was Piebald who called the shots, why it was Piebald that they followed. And it was this position as leader which caused Fat Cat, after a few minor inquiries, to turn to him.  
  
One doesn't argue with a cat. Not one as big and mean as Fat Cat, not one with his reputation.  
  
  
"Hello, Lenny."  
  
Lenny the Squib. The part-time confidence-pigeon had technically been on the lam for months, ever since he'd had some bad luck involving Fat Cat and the Rescue Rangers. At first he'd cowered, fearing that his mad dash and escape from police custody had been nothing more than a fever dream. But time went on, and eventually Lenny had come to the conclusion that no one was looking very hard for him. He'd grown bolder, and now slept in the open, in the park.   
  
It was in the park that Fat Cat found him, dozing in the shade under a bench. The big cat adjusted his expression until he looked as if he'd just eaten a canary, then woke the pigeon up.  
  
"What?! Fat Cat?!" Lenny jerked awake. His wings started to hurt again, the way they always did when he was nervous.  
  
"How are you doing, you blithering doltish snack?" Fat Cat didn't pause for an answer, instead -- quick as thought -- feinting with one set of claws and grabbing the still-half-asleep pigeon with the other.  
  
"I don't have the money, Fat Cat! But I can get it!" Lenny cried desperately, wondering what he'd done wrong and whether he actually owed Fat Cat any money.  
  
"Forget it," Fat Cat told him shortly as he carried him away. "I need your wings, snack."  
  
  
9. WART AND JIFFY HAVE THEIR FALLING OUT  
  
"Soup!" Wart tried to think of more invective to spout, but couldn't.  
  
"Yes, soup," Jiffy said placidly. He did not turn to face Wart (an insult!), instead continuing to oversee the three workers cooperating to operate a can opener. One mouse held the can steady, another held the opener in place, and a chipmunk turned the crank.  
  
"Careful with the -- yes, good," Jiffy said as they tipped the open can of cream-of-mushroom soup into the large mixing bowl. "Now, the onions."  
  
"Soup!" Wart said again.  
  
Jiffy looked around. No Claire, darn it. He took a deep breath. "Yes indeedarooney," he said. "Soup of the evening, beautiful soup." He raised his voice slightly. "Soup of the evening!" he repeated.  
  
"I said no soup," Wart said petulantly. He pointed to the soup-in-progress. "Soup!"  
  
Jiffy sighed. "Yeah, you know, I went ahead and, ah, we're going to have a soup course tonight. I just thought it was necessary."  
  
"But... ooh!" Wart stamped his foot. "We had an agreement! A reasonable one!"  
  
"No, not really." Jiffy nodded to the mice on soup detail. Slowly they moved in, encircling Wart. As mostly-mice, they were of course smaller than the iguana, but nevertheless they outnumbered him thirteen (counting Jiffy) to one.  
  
"But.. but..." Wart looked around and saw the situation.  
  
"I've been thinking, Wart, and I think that in term of splendidity and overwonderfulness soup is necessary," Jiffy said slowly. Twelve mice-and-sundry nodded. "Soup is important."  
  
"But..."  
  
"We must have soup."  
  
Wart turned and fled.  
  
  
"Hi there," Noah said cheerily as Wart rushed into the office and slammed the door closed behind him. "I've just popped back in for a moment, no need to get excited... is something wrong?"  
  
"Soup," Wart muttered, more to his poor and benighted self than to the evil mouse in the chair.  
  
"Soup?"  
  
"Soup! That terrible squirrel, the irritating Jiffy! He has been making soup on the sly!" Wart hissed at Noah, forgetting for the moment that the mouse terrified him. "I hate him! I hate him so much!"  
  
"On the sly?" Noah repeated, curious.  
  
"I expressly said no! No soup for you, I said!" Wart had made a fist and was banging it into his other hand in an uncharacteristically proactive display of anger.  
  
"And yet he's done it?"  
  
"Yes!" Wart sat down, crossed his arms in a huff, and began glowering at the floor.  
  
"Well," Noah mused. "We can't have that, I suppose."  
  
  
10. NOAH AND CLAIRE DO NOT HAVE A BIG EXPENSIVE SCENERY-WRECKING FIGHT  
  
"Excuse me."  
  
Claire spun around. She was in the front of the casino, picking up the loose bits of trash and junk that had collected since the workmice had finished the area. It tended to accumulate wherever Snout and Mole and Prickles spent their time. (Empty bottles, lint, candy-bar wrappers... the list went on.) Noah watched her turn with natural grace, and his little eyes narrowed further.  
  
"Claire, Claire Dupont, yes?" he asked, as if trying to remember her name. The smile never left his face.  
  
"Oh, uh, yes," Claire said, stumbling over the words. She moved a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. "Yes, Mi... Noah," she said, more firmly. "What can I do for you, sir?"  
  
"I've just been speaking with Mr. Wart," Noah said cheerily.  
  
"You have, huh?" Claire was more than a little disheartened. She knew Jiffy and Wart had exchanged words.  
  
"Indeed I have," Noah agreed. He didn't say anything else, but instead simply stood there, smiling like an imp. He was also nodding, slightly.  
  
"And, uh," Claire eventually said, slowly, "uh, what did he say?"  
  
"Oh, this and that. You know Mr. Wart, he's all 'Poor Little Wart' this and 'Mister Creepy Hand' that..." Noah shrugged, as if sheepish. "The usual about how much work he's doing, et cetera. You know Mr. Wart. But he did, now that you mention it, he did have one other thing, not his usual, thing, you know, to talk about..." The Hand shook his head dismissively. "Nothing important, just how he and Mr. Jiffy had discussed the general plans for the opening tonight. Heck, that's just barely three hours away, isn't it? I'll bet you're excited."  
  
Claire bit her lip while Noah paused, a beatific expression on his face. She said nothing.  
  
"Well, anyway, back to the main point. The funny thing is, Mr. Wart and Mr. Jiffy were disagreeing on certain pieces of policy!" He clapped his hands together and rubbed them, his eyes a-twinkle. "Imagine that! Mr. Wart, the recognized head of the casino, while Fat Cat isn't around of course, and a hired hand arguing over the dinner program!"  
  
"Uh, well, you know how seriously Jiffy takes customer service..." Claire said, not really understanding why she was carrying on a conversation.  
  
"Yes, yes I do," Noah said agreeably. "Very seriously," he added.  
  
"And Mr. Wart, he, uh..."  
  
"Doesn't take customer service as seriously?"  
  
"No."  
  
"I see." Noah nodded meditatively, and sighed wistfully. "It must be nice to care that much about something, don't you think? It would simplify things so much..."  
  
Claire wondered if she could make a break for it, and decided she probably couldn't.  
  
"Let me ask you a question, Claire..." Noah leaned in. "'You Seem Like a Bright Young Person, Miss Dupont. Far Too Bright to Hitch Yourself to a Losing Wagon, Am I Right?'" His voice had taken on a decidedly... unusual tone. "'If I Were You, I Would Think Long and Hard before Allowing Myself to Be Drawn into a Conflict Between a Lizard with the Full Force of the Al on His Side, and a Very Silly Squirrel.'"  
  
Claire drew in a ragged breath.  
  
"'So I Recommend that You Take Care to Distance Yourself from Jiffy and His Zany Schemes,'" Noah concluded.  
  
Claire stiffened, and was silent for nearly ten seconds. "Well Mr. Noah I really think that Jiffy more or less needs me and that I kind of have an obligation to help him and defend him and so I have to disagree with you about the whole abandoning-him-to-his-fate thing and I hope you don't mind but yes I really think my place is here and anyhow I don't really like Mr. Wart --" She was cut off with a wave of Noah's hand.  
  
"Really, now?" he asked coldly. Claire nodded mutely.  
  
There was a long pause.  
  
"But you do agree with me when I say that pi is the ratio of a circle's circumference to its diameter, right?" All the flavor seemed to have drained out of his voice. Noah sounded, suddenly, like two rocks rubbed together. Or a iceberg rubbing the side of a cruise ship. Nothing good could ever happen as a result of that noise.  
  
"Uh, yeah. Yeah, I would agree with you there..." Claire said helplessly. "Definitely. It's about three, right?"  
  
Gears turned in Noah's head, and an answer popped out. "Ah," he said, much more warmly. "Just so long as we're on the same page there. Yes, well, I'm sure you'll do splendidly," Noah said with a cold brightness. He cocked his head and, very deliberately, winked at her.  
  
"Uh, thanks," Claire said slowly. "So then..."  
  
"I really think it's great, the way he cares so much about doing a good job, and the way you're sticking up for him..." The mouse in green shook his head, apparently overcome with emotion. "Is there, uh, are there sparks there, or what?"  
  
Claire looked confused for moment. "Oh," she said with relief after she realized what he meant. "No, I -- No! We're, uh, just friends. Friends and co-workers..." She laughed, nervously. "Although there was that one time we had a three-week fling in the Bahamas, which turned into an elaborate web of lies and turned out to be a complex confidence game..." Claire straightened up. "But that doesn't count because it didn't, technically speaking, happen. It was part of a movie I saw last year."  
  
"Well, that's great," Noah said, chipper once again. "I'll just be moseying on out, all right?" He flashed a toothy smile. "You take care now, okey-dokey?"  
  
"...Okey-dokey," Claire said, taking a step backwards and nodding empathetically.  
  
Noah walked to the cloakroom and picked up his green overcoat. Smiling placidly, he strolled to the front door, opened it, and was halfway out when he stopped and turned. "Claire?"  
  
"...Yes?" Claire asked nervously.  
  
"Catch!" He whipped something from out the confines of his coat and threw it straight at her head. Not waiting to see the results, Noah slipped out the door and rendered himself temporarily one with the night (and on into a different part of the story).  
  
Reflexively Claire flipped the serving-tray she was still holding up over her face. There was a heavy thumping noise as a mouse-scaled clipboard, sharpened on three sides and balanced for throwing, lodged in the improvised shield.  
  
"Huh," Claire muttered weakly. She peeked over the tray and saw just what she had blocked. "A clipboard. I could use one of those." She pulled the tool free and tossed the now badly-damaged tray into the trashcan behind the bar. She staggered off the to break room, to put her papers in the clipboard and sit for a while and maybe get something to drink.   
  
  
11. SABOTAGE AS THE GUESTS ARRIVE   
  
If Snout had a watch, he would have checked it. As it was, he had to stare up at the sun and squint, remember that he didn't know how to tell time by the sun, rub his eyes trying to get rid of the afterimages, stagger around a bit, and finally end up going back inside and checking the clock behind the bar. Time, already.  
  
He'd been out in front of the casino, doing his job (i.e., nothing), when the first clump of them sidled up toward him. Snout knew them, well if not intimately: Ivan "Ivanhoe" Ivanovich Ivashko and his gang. Ivanhoe was a minor power in the city, the rat to talk to if you had a problem involving a three-block strip on the lower end of Manhattan. But Ivanhoe had ambition: his goal was to be recognized as the boss of no fewer than seven blocks, including the block on which was built "Amazing & Famous Joe's Cheeses of the World."  
  
He had approached Snout on a few occasions, trying to entice the rat away from Fat Cat's employ, until he got to know him well enough to realize there wasn't much point. With him tonight were other -- more "competent," less "lazy," more "loyal," less "impatient," Snout thought bitterly -- rats, followers and hangers-on. He tried to think of small talk he could make.  
  
"Hey there, Snout," Ivanhoe said. He was either being unpleasantly rude and patronizing, or genuinely pleasant: Snout wasn't certain. "Business been good?"  
  
While Snout was so occupied, one of the rats trailing behind Ivanhoe broke free and nonchalantly stepped into the casino. Piebald kept close to the side, and watched as the staff collected hats and coats, directed guests to the bar, and generally served. They were mostly moving around, making it hard for him to get a head count, but Piebald figured there were about six mice, four rats, two chipmunks, and one middling attractive coat-check iguana. He didn't see Wart or Mole anywhere. Prickles, the hedgehog bouncer, idled at the bar.  
  
"Well, you know the boss," Snout said automatically. "I mean," he added lamely, "the casino's been closed for a while now."  
  
The flow of guests into the casino was slowly increasing. Drinks, as yet non-alcoholic, were passed around -- Piebald found a thimbleful of what smelled like a soda offered to him. Accepting the drink, he moved further in, ahead of the crowd, towards the tables and chairs cordoned off in the main floor.  
  
"Oh, is that right? I thought I'd heard something about that on the, you know, on the grapevine." Ivanhoe was a few millimeters taller than Snout, and he managed to look down his nose at him. "Well, things are bound to pick up."  
  
No one took any notice of Piebald. Only a few of the staff even happened to see him, casually wandering in the direction of the hors d'vors sideboard. Bindings, who was shuttling bowls of soup from the kitchen to the warming panel on the buffet, paused long enough to politely inform him that the casino would not be serving for another twenty minutes. Piebald nodded sagely, and hung back long enough to watch her leave. The warming panel, Piebald noted, had started life as a war surplus ammo box, steel or aluminum or something like that. Though it was then closed, the rat assumed the thing was full of hot coals or boiling water or torrid romance novels or something.  
  
"They'd pretty much have to," Snout allowed. "I reckon the reopening tonight will... increase business."  
  
From the pocket of his overcoat, Piebald removed an envelope of red powder and surreptitiously emptied it evenly into the many small bowls of soup on the almost-covered warmer.  
  
"That's nice." Ivanhoe rubbed his chin thoughtfully.  
  
Bindings returned a moment after he finished, laying down three more bowls of soup, completely covering the warmer. "I was right," she muttered to herself. "Last trip." She smiled pleasantly at Piebald, who was now sipping his soda and leaning against a foot-high potted plant, then turned and headed back towards the kitchen, cleaning her dirty glasses as she went.  
  
"Yep," Snout said, trying to think of something else to say. "So, organized crime working well for you?"  
  
Piebald cooly followed her. Behind the calm facade of busy workers darting about, the maze of rooms in the employees' section of the casino was a morass of chaos. If he hadn't been following Bindings, Piebald would probably have gotten lost, maybe ended up in the storeroom or a conference lounge or something. Fortunately, Bindings was indeed heading the direction he wanted to go, and the rat soon found himself in the main kitchen.  
  
"Mmm-hmm. Can't complain." Ivanhoe tapped his foot, and shrugged.  
  
With everyone so busy, as before, only Jiffy noticed the foreign rat. He broke away from directing the cheese-grating team and inquired as to Piebald's reason for gracing the kitchen with his presence. Glibly, Piebald explained he was looking for a restroom. Jiffy pointed the way, but was distracted by a minor grating emergency.  
  
"Yeah, me too," Snout said quickly.  
  
As soon as the nosy squirrel's back was turned, Piebald turned to the large tureen of soup, heated and mixed by a small team of chipmunks. As he bent over the tureen and, unnoticed, helped himself to a quick taste, another, larger envelope spilled out of his sleeve, dumping its contents of jalepeno seeds and ground insanity peppers into the mix. The dutiful chipmunks shooed him away from the soup, of course, but didn't notice the red powder they were stirring into the mix.  
  
"So you said, so you said."  
  
"Yeah..."  
  
As Ivanhoe's conversation with Snout died off and his entourage entered the casino, Piebald ducked back out again, moving against the stream of arrivals and headed away from the casino. Down the fire escape, two buildings over, and back up to the rooftop: there waited Fat Cat.  
  
  
"Excellent, excellent," Fat Cat said when Piebald finished his harrowing account of his sabotage mission. "Wart versus soup... Piebald, once I've reestablished control of my casino, you may help yourself to the bar."  
  
"Oh, thank you, Fat Cat!" Piebald said eagerly. He knew which side his bread was buttered on.  
  
Fat Cat had already turned his attention away, however. "It seems your information was correct," he told Lenny the Squib. "I was going to eat you anyway, but instead I'm going to be nice and let you go."  
  
"Oh yes," Lenny agreed. "Very nice, very nice of you. I'll be sure to tell all my friends how nice you are, Fat Cat..."  
  
"Quiet!"  
  
"Quiet, sir."  
  
"You won't tell anyone about this. You won't tell anyone about spying on my casino for me. What won't you tell anyone about?"  
  
"Spying on the casino for you, sir," Lenny said obediently.  
  
Fat Cat slapped Lenny once, just to make the point. "I told you, tell no one about it!"  
  
"Right. No one."  
  
"No one about what?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Very good." Fat Cat threw Lenny away, towards the street below. The bird spread his aching wings, caught the breeze, and flew away from the area as fast as he could.  
  
  
12. RESPONSE  
  
Bindings hadn't had any lunch that day. This was all that saved the casino from minor disaster. She hadn't had any lunch, and she'd finished setting up the soup, and it had smelled so good...  
  
"Ack! Ack! Ack!" Bindings burst into the ladies' room and ran straight to the sinks, shoving a rat twice her size out of the way.  
  
"Bindings, are you all right?" Claire asked mildly as she daintily dried her hands. She wasn't certain, but something about her friend's behavior seemed odd. She leaned over -- Bindings had the tap running cold water full-blast, and was pouring as much of it down her throat as could fit.  
  
It took Bindings a few minutes to manage any speech other than "ack," but eventually she was able to tell Claire something was wrong with the soup.  
  
"What?! The soup?! But we start serving the soup in five minutes! Are you sure?"   
  
"Pretty darn sure, yeah," Bindings took her head out from under the tap long enough to say.  
  
"Oh, me... we've got to go tell Jiffy! No, wait, I'll go tell Jiffy! You stay here!"  
  
"Will do," Bindings grunted to Claire's retreating form.  
  
  
Thirteen seconds later, the kitchen was in chaos. The horrible news spread quickly through the Amidst the clamoring mice-and-sundry there was a single voice of reason. "Okay," Jiffy said. "Okay. Okay. We can deal with this, we're the cream of the cream of the cream. Claire, get a couple of mice and empty the soup bowls out."  
  
"'Empty them out?' Are you serious?" Claire consulted her clipboard. "This is _all_ we have for the soup course!"  
  
"And right now it's not fit to eat, and we don't have time to make more. So what we will do is empty these pots, wash them out, and make some nice, bippity-dee dip in them. Serve it with chips. I'm going to take a couple of hands and go get some chips from the convenience store two blocks over. Should I get with ruffles, or without, do you think?"  
  
"Uh, with, I guess," Claire said. "Did you say Hands?"  
  
"Yes, I agree; ruffles hold the dip better. No, hands... c'mon, we've got to _hurry!_"  
  
  
13. FAT CAT'S SECOND ATTACK  
  
  
By this point most of the guests had arrived, and were seated, and the alcoholic drinks had been broken out. Fat Cat had advanced to the back of the giant metal cat which was his casino, and peered eagerly through a small skylight.  
  
By now, Fat Cat figured, Wart should be running around in little circles, trying desperately to keep a hold of the situation and wishing and hoping and praying that Fat Cat, good ol' Fat Cat, would come rescue him. O, how Wart must be missing Fat Cat. O, how renewed and tremendous would his loyalty be.  
  
There was a distinct lack of panic, however. Fat Cat couldn't see Wart, wherever he was, through the skylight, but on the whole the scene beneath him seemed to be happening without any exploding sinuses at all.  
  
"Piebald!" Fat Cat snapped his fingers, not taking his eyes off the tableau below. The rat hurried to his side. "Explain," he said, pointing down.  
  
Piebald swallowed. "I... I don't understand," he said. "I put the pepper in, and it was spicy..."  
  
"I don't even see any soup," Fat Cat muttered. He squinted. "They're having dip." The big cat reared up.  
  
"You've failed me yet again, Piebald," he began, forgetting for the moment that this operation was the first and last time Piebald was working for him. "I give you a simple task, a task which should be well within even your limited capabilities. I provide the idea, I provide the know-how, I even provide the ground insanity peppers. Your part of the great work was infinitesimal..."  
  
Piebald gulped. No small herbivorous rodent liked being bawled out by a cat.  
  
"And yet, you FAIL!" Fat Cat extended his claws and thrust them toward Piebald's midsection, stopping just before the moment of contact. "I want you, all of you!" he roared to the dozen rats of which Piebald was the leader. "All of you go down there and raise a ruckus! Start a panic! And then, then we will see Wart and his nervous cringing, and then I will step in and save the day!" He exhaled into the Piebald's face, and Piebald could have sworn he smelled rat on Fat Cat's breath. "Do we understand one another?"  
  
"Uh, yes, sir, but..."  
  
"There's a hatch at the base of the metal cat's skull."  
  
"No, no, I mean, yes, but uh..."  
  
Fat Cat sighed. "Yes, you can still help yourselves to the bar after I have my casino back," he said disgustedly.  
  
The rats, doubly motivated, scampered away.  
  
  
14. CLAIRE GETS TO DO SOMETHING  
  
"Ooh, now you've done it," Claire cried as she threw down her clipboard and assumed a combat stance. "You've made me angry! Don't make me angry; you wouldn't like me when I'm angry..."  
  
"Please, Claire!" Jiffy shouted, and there was iron in his tone. "People are trying to eat!"  
  
Silently (out of deference to the diners, whom she hoped would interpret events as some kind of floor show [she made a mental note to talk to Jiffy {beg him, in fact, since now that she thought about it, it would be a perfect springboard from which she could launch her languishing acting career} about starting up a floor show or dinner theater of some kind] and not as an exciting act of violence) she leapt halfway across the dining area, towards the intruders.  
  
  
  
I'm sorry to intrude, but this kind of requires a little bit of explanation. Until recently the highwayman, robber, or mugger acting solo had to make do with the threat of violence. Properly wielding a crossbow or a katana (assuming said criminal was able to get his hands on one) takes skill, and (bad fantasy novels aside) those persons most likely to have readily-portable wealth are exactly those persons most likely to have a broadsword and know how to use it. Exceptions existed, of course, but by and large throughout most of human history the prototypical solitary robber was a big guy with, maybe, a club or a knife. The muggee assumed an air of submission, or the mugger smashed up or cut the muggee. It wasn't an easy task by any means, is my point.  
The arrival of the reliable, inexpensive, easily concealed firearm changed this completely. A man with a gun is as unto a god before a man without. Guns can be easily obtained, they are cheap, and most importantly of all, they have a simple point-and-shoot operating system. Muggers almost never use clubs any more. No longer does the criminal need to be larger and physically tougher than his or her victims. There used to be an expression: "God made all men, but it was Colonel Colt who made them all equal."   
The same cannot be said of mice. Ignoring that blip on the radar which is the .22 Darned Nearly Recoilless Rifle, mice-and-sundry simply don't have guns, at all. Only a few of them even have knives -- logically, their muggers and highwaymen and common thugs should still follow the intimidating, pre-Colt model. However, one thing the mice-and-sundry of large cities do and always do and do without thinking about it is ape slavishly the practices of the titans above them: in clothing, in city-building, in organized crime. Always and eternally. (Why else would perfectly rational chipmunks, who walk around naked from the waist down all the time, don swim trunks at the beach?)  
So the practical upshot of all this is that mouse thugs aren't always especially large. In fact, the Arnold Mouseneggers of the world are a minority. Most of the mob enforcers are little Joe Pesci types. Some are genuinely vicious, but more are upset whenever a target resists them, and often have the air of a desperate man whose sidearm has just run out of ammunition. This quality serves them well when their victims are (as is usual) the merest and meekest of society; the meek know all too well those actions to which a desperate mouse might be driven. But at times, the would-be victim (be it a muggee or a casino-cum-dining-experience) puts up a fight.  
And at these times, things do not go well for the little Joe Pesci types. Hence, your typical thug kind of mice travel in groups, if not packs. And also hence, Claire's having a decent (excellent, really, knowing her) chance. Now, back to the story, such as it is. Again, I am sorry.  
  
  
  
Claire recounted the occasion more than once. "So there I was," she said on one occasion, "surrounded by a crowd of diners and forced to keep _quiet_. And there they were, a dozen or more. It was like a scene of out one of those movies they used to show on channel 56 at eleven-thirty. You remember, with what's-his-name, the guy who died? The martial arts guy, not Bruce Lee, the other one... well.  
  
"I guess it's not important. But there I was, engaged in furious hand-to-hand combat with like twelve different guys. And they didn't -- this is the important part, Jill, pause your game and listen to this -- they didn't fight fair!  
  
"In the movies, see, they always fought one-on-one, mano a mano. But these guys were like all of them at once getting on me, like what the big guy in that movie about the guy and the girl and the little guy with the logic problem --"  
  
"'The Princess Bride?'"  
  
"Yes! Like Andre the Giant in 'the Princess Bride.' Now, you look at me... do I look like I could take on a dozen opponents at once?" Claire paused significantly and gestured to herself.  
  
"I think you could," Jill said loyally. She'd heard many of Aunt Claire's stories.  
  
"Well, yes. I mean, I did. But I had to -- this was when there was just me there as security, because there wasn't really anybody, and Jiffy was trying so hard to make sure everyone had a nice time and there were all those diners who wanted nothing more than to come in, eat, gamble, and leave peacefully --" Claire paused for breath, and reflected that Jiffy's sense of duty to the Customer had rubbed off on her over the years she'd worked with him. "But it was, like, my finest hour!"  
  
"What was it like?" Jill, for her part, was genuinely interested in Aunt Claire's story. Her mother's friend was her all-time favorite baby-sitter.  
  
"Okay, now. Let's imagine your kitchen table here is the casino. This section here, under your father's newspaper, that's the dining area. Imagine it's totally packed, and Jiffy and our staff are rushing madly around, handing out dip and chips and beverages and taking people's orders. We had to instruct the waiters special on how to move around in there, because the tables were way too close together. This was before Jiffy took out this bank of roulette wheels... let's say, this placemat... to meet demand.  
  
"Now, over here, this novelty saltshaker shaped like an acorn is me. No, wait, hold on... this _hot-pink thumbtack_ is me! The acorn can be Jiffy, over here on the newspaper keeping people calm. The thumbtack goes over here, by the main entrance, that's this napkin here. And over here, in the back by the slots, which are, uh... this plate... this is where the... forks... came in. Uh, do you have any more forks? Okay, the forks and the spoons. The forks and the spoons are the guys that Fat Cat hired to come in and make trouble. Hmm... this fork is kind of dirty... oh, well, we're not going to eat with it, we're just going to play with it," she said. As a baby-sitter, it was important to set a good example.  
  
"Where was I? Now, when I saw them come in I didn't do anything right away. I mean, hey, maybe they were just customers who got lost, right? But then they started getting loud. Well, yeah... I think the chortling about how Fat Cat had hired them to disrupt the dinner is what tipped Jiffy off...  
  
"No, no, not at all. He's really mild-mannered; it's just that he takes his work very, _very_ seriously. So anyway the saltshaker hears the forks and spoons talking, and they're being loud, and he's definitely got his hands full, and he absolutely hates, hates, hates the idea of excitement. Especially at dinner, and especially at this dinner. I mean, one time he was bitten by a radioactive spider and turned into a superhero and he used his superpowers surreptitiously in his everyday life to make himself a more efficient waiter and to reduce the general level of noise and excitement at the Ratisson... this was back when we worked at the Ratisson... he'd like noiseproof the place by putting in super-spider webbing in the walls and stuff.  
  
"No, not really. See, there was this kinda neat TV show, the Electric Company, and on that there was this Spider-Man and... oh, right. So the saltshaker goes like 'claire! sic 'em!' and I go, this is great, 'don't make me angry, you wouldn't like me when i'm angry,' and then the pink thumbtack, me, just jumps from here to _here_.  
  
"So the saltshaker is all like 'ooh! no! people are eating!' and then I realize... I'm going to have to be clever."  
  
Jill nodded solemnly, and resisted the temptation to ask Claire to do the Jiffy voice again.  
  
"And meanwhile the forks and spoons are coming over to about here, away from the newspaper but still not close enough to the napkin that I could get them out of the casino. Plus they're still far enough from the thumbtack that I might not get to them before they start bugging the diners or singing show tunes or something distracting like that. So while I'm thinking I jumped over here, onto the placemat.  
  
"And the forks and spoons over here, they're like 'woah! check out her jumping!' and I'm all 'yeah! and you better go before i do something worse!' and then they all look at one another and run towards me. As a group. Which I was _not_ expecting. So I get a running start and jump up over to _here_, by the newspaper, right over the heads of the forks and spoons, so I'd have some time to think.  
  
"Then the diners started applauding.  
  
"When I realized they were applauding me I felt _great_. I knew that I was going to have to put on a real show for my Audience, but they were applauding me and my jumping!"  
  
  
  
The dozen-or-so mice turned on their heels, cursing Claire and demanding she stand still. To the delight of the diners (most of whom, as thugs themselves, had been in situations not unlike hers) she spit out a series of puns, instead, as she pranced madly around the pack of them, picking things up and throwing them with calculated randomness.  
  
"I hate to... 'pick' on you guys like this, but I'm afraid you're disrupting the customers. And the customers are just trying to have a nice... 'meal.' So if you... 'donut' mind it too... 'mulch,' why don't you... 'dip' into your savings and quietly enjoy the many... 'fin' games the casino has to..." Claire glanced around, saw mice with bowls of dip on their heads, mice covered in cornmeal and mulch (what on earth was that doing out?), a mouse wrapped in a donut and another who was still recovering from the poke she'd given him with the toothpick. Heard her Audience applauding. Mustn't let them down. Didn't see anything that sounded anything like 'offer.' "Games the casino has to..." she repeated. Darn it. No, wait... one of the mice was standing fairly near the doorway to upstairs... "Games the casino has to... 'office!'" she shouted as she kicked him square in the solar plexus, knocking him into the stairwell. She was grinning like an idiot as she closed and locked the door.  
  
Prolonged, stormy applause.  
  
"Thank you! Thank you!" Claire was in her element at last. She turned to face the customers and bowed. The world was made up of only two things: her and her Audience. "I'll be here all week, folks!" She'd work that out with Jiffy.  
  
  
  
"It was great, Jill. I'd smashed up this fork like this, and this spoon here went skidding all over the newspaper (ooh, didn't mean to scratch the table like that). Uh, and this fork here, this was the one that got hit with the stick of butter here... I just bent it all out of shape, kind of like this... these do bend back, right? Hmm. Well, there are more.  
  
"Anyway, to make a long story short, I'd finally won the approval of a live studio audience, just like I'd always dreamed of ever since I saw my first sitcom. It felt wonderful.   
  
"Hm? Oh, yeah. Yeah, that's a thought. It would be a great idea for your friend who is also a girl your age to run away from home and join the circus. Man, I wish I'd thought of that when I was little, I'd be a bareback princessy person or acrobat or something by now... why do you ask?  
  
  
  
Then Piebald, having had sufficient time to dust himself off and still cursing her for getting all that cornmeal and mulch on him, hit her on the back of the head. Claire slumped down unconscious.  
  
  
15. NOAH AND FAT CAT  
  
"Well, that's done. How nice," Fat Cat said. He was standing high above the casino's main floor, looking down through a handy skylight. A simple bit of work, a simple bit of planning, and it was done.  
  
"Wart!" he bellowed as he let himself in through a well-concealed (and until now, secret) hatchway. He leaned over the balcony, searching the crowd of stunned and confused small animals for his underling.   
  
"Wart?" Until Wart oozed out the woodwork, Fat Cat was going to be on the spot, he realized. Up until now the crowd of guests had taken in everything as an elaborate floor show celebrating the reopening of the casino. "Hello, everyone," he added, waving jauntily. Perhaps he could carry this all off without breaking the mood...  
  
His underling failed to appear, so Fat Cat decided to address the guests and explain the situation. "Music!" he cried heartily, snapping his fingers in the direction of the band. The band Wart had hired wasn't one Fat Cat recognized; they were rats, rather than cats. All the more reason for them to obey him, of course.  
  
"I hope you all have enjoyed this evening's entertainment," he bellowed to the crowd as the band struck up a half-hour ahead of Jiffy's schedule. The hundred or so unsettled sundry looked up at him, gaping at the balcony. Someone, in the back, began to applaud, and it quickly grew to cheers as the assembled sundry realized it had all been in fun, after all. Fat Cat was back! Had he ever really left?  
  
"Hello, Fat Cat," he heard a voice off to his left say. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"  
  
Fat Cat turned, saw a small mouse in a green pullover of some kind. "Employees only up here, mouse," he hissed. "If Wart hired you, you are no longer in the employ of the casino." The mouse didn't move. "Go on," Fat Cat added. First making sure the angle prohibited anyone below from seeing, he exposed the claws on one hand.  
  
Noah had been in the presence of the Al, and counted the teeth on the jaws. A cat didn't terrify him. Still, this was against the plan. "My name is Noah --" he began cheerily.  
  
"I don't care," Fat Cat interrupted. The mouse was beginning to anger him. "Would you like me to slice you open?"  
  
Fat Cat had killed Herbert, Noah suddenly remembered. He stopped smiling. "I serve the Al --"  
  
"I don't care," Fat Cat repeated firmly. He was now very angry. Fat Cat hadn't vented his rage for days now. He reached for Noah, but the mouse leaped back.  
  
"We've taken an interest in your club --" Noah's voice nearly cracked, and he was trying not to shake. The Al hadn't actually tried to kill him. Fat Cat had killed Herbert. Noah's tail, no longer under his conscious control, flew briefly in front of his face.  
  
"Good for you," Fat Cat said as he tried to grab Noah again. He glanced around. No one was up on the balcony except the two of them, and Noah was retreating out of sight towards the upstairs offices. The crowd below was distracted by the band; many had begun to dance. "Hold still so I can kill you," Fat Cat hissed to Noah as he unsheathed the claws on his other hand.  
  
Noah ducked backwards again, dodging Fat Cat's lunge, and bumped into the closed door which led to the offices. He fumbled for the lock -- no time. May the Al be with him, he thought as he darted forward, between Fat Cat's legs. Noah knew the cat would be on him almost instantly if he didn't act instantly. Quick as thought, he jumped the railing on the balcony and fell into the crowd below.  
  
Was there more to the floor show? the crowd wondered amiably. The rats Fat Cat had acquired weren't sure they were supposed to 'get' Noah, and besides, they were already helping themselves to the now-open bar. On the other side of the room, Jiffy cowered.  
  
Noah had dropped into a crouch when he hit the floor, but slowly the mouse straightened up. He'd paled considerably, though it was hard to tell under the fur on his face. As Fat Cat stomped down the staircase to him, Noah regained his composure (causing several tables of sundry near him to feel faint), though his tail was still whipping wildly. The space around him emptied.  
  
"Ladies and gentlemen," Noah began boisterously as the band petered off and conversation dwindled. "I am here tonight as a representative of Sewer Al, and I would like to be the first to announce --"  
  
Fat Cat clapped his hands once (taking care to retract the claws first), and the attention of the crowd instantly shifted to him. "People, and things," Fat Cat said. "I'm sure you've all heard of Sewer Al."  
  
There were general noises of meek assent.  
  
"This is Noah," Fat Cat said, pointing. "He works for Sewer Al."  
  
The big cat adjusted his tie and smirked as he let his sink in. The empty space around Noah grew larger. The only sound in the room was that of chairs being scooted out of harm's way.   
  
Fat Cat advanced on Noah's position, and the sundry surged behind him. The circle around him grew crowded, then packed. Before him was Fat Cat, who was making a show of cracking his knuckles. On all other sides, nothing. No escape. No way out.  
  
  
For all that he believed himself to be in contact with extraterrestrial mice from beyond space and time, Igor was actually a pretty nice guy, once you got to know him. The name was a little off-putting, of course, and so he had to work extra hard to make friends. He had only a few visibly odd hobbies, like collecting aluminum foil. Other mice would ask him what on earth he needed all that used foil for, and he'd just smile and shrug. He knew they'd laugh if he told them about the Visitors.  
  
They'd visited him when he was a very small mouse, living in a hole with his dozen brothers and sisters and parents. They were refugees from the War, but Igor had never known anything different, so he didn't mind the abject poverty growing up. Maybe that was what had attracted the Visitors.  
  
They were small, with bright little eyes. At least one of them bore a close resemblance to Igor's one of older brothers (save only the antennae of copper wire mounted on his head) and a less credulous young mouse might have wondered at the features the Visitors and Igor's brother's friends shared. But Igor was a very credulous young mouse, and took the Visitors' admonitions to collect as much aluminum foil as possible and to give his older brother his share of the pudding the next time their father stole a package from the supermarket to heart.  
  
He had a ball nearly three feet across, now.  
  
Igor was returning to his hole at the end of a profitable day's scavenging, a full pouch of aluminum foil on his back, when a Visitor came. Either he fell from out the sky or from the rooftop casino under which Igor happened to be passing, the mouse couldn't say. But one thing was for certain: his eyes were bright, and he fell out of the sky with a great crash of breaking glass.  
  
"Visitor!" Igor cried as Noah slowly picked himself up. "Are you injured? I have plenty of foil for you!"  
  
"Wha?" Noah lurched away from the insane mouse. Still alive, he thought. For all his bravado, Fat Cat had been afraid to kill a Hand of Sewer Al. "Foil?" he asked the madmouse.  
  
"Yes, of course... or would you prefer pudding?" Igor never touched the stuff himself, not anymore, but he kept some mix in his hole, just in case.  
  
"Pudding would be nice," Noah said graciously as he checked himself over. He didn't think anything was broken. Cut up a bit from going through the window the hard way. "You know Who I Am, then, and Who Sent Me, I suppose?"  
  
"Oh, yes sir!" Igor said eagerly.  
  
The legend of the Al was spreading, Noah thought. Pleased, he allowed Igor to lead him back to his hole.  
  
  
"You!" Fat Cat cried, trying to put on a show for the customers. "Coat-check, uh, lizard!"  
  
On the other side of the room, near the window through which Fat Cat had just (to the considerable delight of the crowd) hurled Noah, a meek-looking iguana swallowed. He had probably been addressing her. "Yessir?" she simpered.  
  
"Look out the window and report what you see," Fat Cat instructed. Feeling a need to more fully assert his total command of the situation and general superiority over the rest of the room, he added "inform our guests of the resulting ramifications of my action, speedily considered and speedily carried out."   
  
"Yessir." The coat-check girl reluctantly crept up to the window and, wincing, stuck her head through it.  
  
"Well?"  
  
"Mmmph mmmph mmph!"  
  
"Bring your head back in here, so we can _all_ hear you, girl," Fat Cat said, trying to conceal his irritation.  
  
"I said he's leaving! He's leaving!" The crowd gasped. "He's limping away, slinking off!" They began to murmur among themselves. "His tail was between his legs!"  
  
"Excellent," Fat Cat said, smiling confidently. More loudly, he continued "ladies and gentlemen, this concludes the evening's entertainment." After the applause died down, he added, "I'm afraid I have to be going upstairs now -- have to see how the old homestead's been doing without me."   
  
The guests, even the mice, laughed indulgently at that one. They were in the palm of his hand.  
  
"Wart!" he called over his shoulder as he began to climb back up the stairs. "I see you back there -- come, and speak with me a while."  
  
  
Not far from the entrance, Poor Little Wart cringed. First Noah -- sick and twisted Noah -- had been bullying him around, and now Fat Cat was back. Why did everything happen to _him_?  
  
  
16. FAT CAT AND JIFFY AND CLAIRE  
  
Jiffy peeked out from behind the bar. "Is it over?" he whispered to Claire. Seeing she was still unconscious, he nudged her with his foot.  
  
"thank you, thank you, please, yes... taped before a live studio audience..." Claire mumbled. Jiffy wrapped his tail around her head, so the downy hairs tickled her nose. She sneezed, and sat up.  
  
"What happened?" she asked, rubbing the back of her head. "I was... and it was... and then... What happened, Jiffy?"  
  
Jiffy pointed to Piebald. "He hit you on the back of the head while you were bowing. Then it got all strange, and people were laughing, and someone threw someone out a window and... ooh."  
  
"Why is he cowering like that?"  
  
"Mr. Noah."  
  
"Oh." Claire looked around. The diners had gone back to their meals. Wart who was looking like a kicked dog, was slowly following Fat Cat up the stairs, presumably to get bawled out in private. Piebald and the other thugs were in the process of slinking away... "Where's Noah, now?"  
  
"Uh... he was here a second ago," Jiffy muttered. "Just after the one mouse hit you on the back of the head..."  
  
"He's gone, isn't he?" Maybe it was the concussion, but Claire was filled with euphoria. "Noah's gone!"  
  
"What?! I don't know, maybe," Jiffy said. "He might just be hiding. He's very hideriffic and stealthtastic and such."  
  
"Noah's gone! Let's go talk to him!"  
  
"What?! Talk to Noah?" Jiffy nearly jumped out of his skin. "Did that bump on the head mess up your speech centers?"  
  
"No, and no. Talk to Fat Cat!" Realizing there was no longer any reason to sit on the ground cowering behind the bar, Claire rose from where Jiffy had dragged her and began making her way across the increasingly crowded casino floor.  
  
"What?! Claire! You can't be serious! This is one of your hilarious and needlessly complex practical jokes, isn't it! Like the time you set fire to my pants! Or the time I took a nap and you told me I'd been in a coma for ten years and there weren't any restaurants in the brave tickety-boo new world! Oh, we all had a splendid laugh then, didn't we?! Claire!" Jiffy could plainly see Claire fail to come to her senses and turn around. He watched her not turn around a few times before he gave up on it and started running after her.  
  
  
Downstairs, in the basement, which was actually part of the roof of the warehouse, which just goes to show you: Snout and Prickles and Mole were waiting for Fat Cat to come get them. The three of them had managed to avoid Noah; they knew which way the wind blew. Snout and Mole had fled the scene when Fat Cat descended from the skies, anticipating trouble. Prickles, less experienced in Fat Cat's managerial style, didn't join them for nearly three minutes.  
  
"Yeah, the way I see it, it works like this. I get up around ten or eleven, I eat some breakfast, I hang around until the casino opens, I eat some lunch, and then I hang around the entrance and make sure no one tries to bring in any thermonuclear devices," Snout said. "Pass me another bottle, will you?"  
  
"It's a big job," Mole explained as he handed Snout a full bottle and took the empty. "So we both do it."  
  
"Can't have any nukes in the casino," Snout agreed. "It would be bad for business," he added as he took a swig.  
  
Prickles nodded sagely. He knew all about laziness; he understood it and worshipped it.  
  
"Yeah, I think just so long as you don't take naps in Conference Room Three, we'll get along fine."  
  
  
"What, did you forget he was a cat?!"   
  
Jiffy found Claire standing meekly outside Wart's -- he supposed it was Fat Cat's, now -- office. She was clearly agitated: her tail was snapping around skittishly, she was bouncing on the balls of her feet, and also she was muttering "i am very agitated about this" under her breath.  
  
"Sush," she said imperiously. She reached up to the doorknob, then lowered it again.   
  
Fat Cat was on the other side of the door. A cat.  
  
"I can do this," she muttered. "I can... stride boldly... into the maw of... a cat." She took a deep breath. Imagine the audience, she reminded herself. Hundreds of drab little imaginary people, leading drab little imaginary lives, who had scrimped and saved and worked weekends and nights at jobs they hated without any wacky coworkers at all -- not even Jiffy -- just to be able to afford a ticket to her performance. The imaginary audience needed her to be brave and strong and witty and an action hero. Claire took another deep breath.  
  
The door slammed open. Wart glared balefully at her. His clothing was tattered and he sported a bandage on the tip of his nose. "The boss wants to see you, psychopathic violent mousy mouse! You too, dangerous subversive insane squirrel person," he added as he turned to Jiffy. "Feh!"  
  
"Are you okay?" Jiffy knew Wart didn't like him; heck, he didn't like Wart either. But Jiffy was nothing if not considerate and contentious. "You look a little rough, rocky, messed, troubled, not quite ideal?"  
  
"Feh!" Wart turned up his nose at them, and stalked off.He was walking with a slight limp; Wart tried to salvage what little remained of his dignity as he walked away. Jiffy winced when he heard the crashing sound of the poor lizard falling down the stairs.  
  
Claire took another deep breath and walked into Fat Cat's office, Jiffy on her heels. It was definitely Fat Cat's office, now.  
  
  
"Hello," Fat Cat said. He was leaning back in the big, soft chair behind the desk, a pose far more natural for him than for Wart.  
  
Claire stuck out her chin. "Hello," she said.  
  
"Hi there," Jiffy offered.  
  
"Wart's told me so much about you both," Fat Cat said. He looked at them expectantly.  
  
"Uh, yes, I guess he would. huh?" Jiffy tried to laugh in a friendly way. "He does tend to, you know..."  
  
"Yes." Fat Cat nodded. He extended his claws and retracted them again. "So what," he said lugubriously, "do you have to say for yourselves?"  
  
"Uh, well..." Jiffy's mind raced. Every instinct in his body was shouting at him to run, run away, get away from the cat as quickly as possible, flee, abandon Claire, run as fast as he could, go. He felt buffeted from all sides. "I know that although Wart and I have had our little disagreements from time to time even he would have to be the first or at least among the first maybe second or third --" pause for breath "-- to admit that I have always had -- Claire and I have always had by all means we've always had the best interest nothing but the best interest --" pause for breath "-- of the casino at heart. Yes." He winced, and tried to hide himself under himself.  
  
Fat Cat seemed to mull this over. "And you?" he asked Claire.  
  
Claire had lost track of the conversation, consumed as she was with thoughts of Fat Cat's claws and bite and bulk. Fat Cat's abrupt question caught her off guard. "My name is Claire," she said, to buy herself some time. Big, sharp, shiny claws. The office was dimly lit, and Fat Cat's eyes seemed to glint in the half-light. His teeth were very sharp. He was very very big. "I watch television," she added lamely.  
  
Fat Cat stroked his magnificent chin. Clearly he was frightening the two of them. That would never do. "Would you care for a drink?" he offered. When they just stood there dumbly, he shrugged, rose, and crossed to the sidebar. A jingle and a reach into pockets, and the keys were in his hand. Another few moments, and the sidebar was unlocked and drinks were poured and distributed.  
  
Fear for her life always made Claire thirsty, and she downed half the proffered drink before she realized it was alcoholic. She downed the rest after a moment's thought.  
  
Jiffy sniffed his drink, unsure as to just what it was, and declined to sip. "So, Mister Fat Cat," he began.  
  
"Just Fat Cat," the tremendous predator replied evenly as he settled back into his plush chair. He noticed Claire and Jiffy both stiffen, slightly. "'Fat Cat' is enough," he repeated.  
  
"I like television," Claire muttered. "Television is my friend." She hadn't meant to say that. She meant to say something intelligent about the casino and her place in it. The proximity to the cat was giving her trouble.  
  
"Right, sorry, Fat Cat it is, Mister Fat -- Fat Cat." Jiffy cringed in a way that reminded Fat Cat of Wart.  
  
"I suppose you're wondering why I've asked you two to come up here," Fat Cat said. Trite but true. "Wart's been telling me some interesting stories..."  
  
"I especially like situation comedies," Claire tried not to say. She wanted to talk about her college years, all the tears and laughs she'd shared with her fellow students, all the lessons she had learned. Surely this would convince the cat of her worth and goodness and thus he wouldn't eat her. "Situation comedies are my favorite." On the other hand, she'd never technically attended college, although she did see one once.  
  
"Oh, well, you know Wart..." Jiffy gestured in a way he hoped was dismissive.  
  
"Yes, I do." Fat Cat smiled toothily. "I'll be brief. I want the two of you, and the mice you've hired, to continue the fine work I've witnessed. Tonight I saw a veritable smorgasbord of customer service," he continued as Jiffy stood gaping and Claire tried to regain control of her mouth. "And what I saw impressed me. I am a difficult cat to impress, sir, a cat of known taste and regal bearing. Many have tried to make their mark on my mind in the past; all have failed. I am not one who is easily moved. But I must say that you managed the difficult task of turning the head of this poor son of my mother."  
  
"What?" Jiffy was neither bright nor foolish, but in his current state of stress, the squirrel had lost track of Fat Cat's point somewhere along the eloquence.  
  
"I know, I know what the first objection to spring unbidden to your lips will be. 'But Fat Cat,' you will say, 'isn't the casino merely a front for your many and potent criminal enterprises?' And you would be right. I am a master criminal. My mind is that of a master criminal's. I am a criminal mastermind. And I realize, thus, that it is better to have a front for my crime syndicate which is profitable. A front which is consistent and real and possessing that indefinable spark of vitality and actuality... well, that's a front one can be proud of." Fat Cat smiled again.  
  
"What?" Jiffy repeated dumbly. "Crime?"  
  
"Never you worry about that. Just understand that the goal of Fat Cat's is Total Quality, and everything will be... excellent. Do we understand one another?" Fat Cat looked at them. His gaze seemed to drill into Claire, who was still struggling with her speech centers.  
  
"Well... it would of course be wonderful to see the project through to completion, Fat Cat, sir, but I really don't know... we didn't really want to come here in the first place and..."  
  
"Ah!" Fat Cat made a show of remembering, slapping his forehead, and chuckling indulgently. "Of course. How silly of me!" His expression turned mercenary. "Ten percent raise. Take it or leave it."  
  
"Deal!" Claire squeaked. Jiffy turned to her in surprise. "On one condition!" she added, also squeakily.  
  
"Let me guess," Fat Cat said. "I saw your performance earlier -- kudos, kudos, by the way; the crowd really seemed to enjoy your perfidious display. I say perfidious only because you were acting counter to my aims. A bit of entertainment would add still more credibility, and profitability, to the enterprise. Three shows a week, to start, do you think?"  
  
Despite her better judgement, Claire grinned like an idiot. "Yes, that would be nice," she managed to say.  
  
"If she says so," Jiffy said helplessly.  
  
"Wonderful."  
  
  
17. AFTERWARDS  
  
Suddenly there was a pounding on the door.   
  
This was about a week later; Fat Cat's had reached a new equilibrium. Wart, in his new position of Totally Superfluous Executive Vice-President; Jiffy, installed as the general manager of the casino floor and expanding buffet; Claire, now in charge of security and working on producing/writing/starring in her one-mouse show, "Action Dinner Theater 9600"; Snout and Mole and Prickles, technically Claire's subordinates but mainly chaff who mooched off the kitchen and were, like Wart, written off as overhead; and Fat Cat, in his office Upstairs. Noah was, of course, long gone, and no one dared mention him.  
  
There was a pounding on the door, about three in the afternoon. The casino was bustling, of course: cleaners and cooks, making certain the gears of commerce would remain well-oiled. Claire and most of the "senior staff" was asleep in the basement; Claire was still looking for a place to stay nearer the casino and the rest of them just lived there. Jiffy's twelve-hour shift had just begun, and he was the senior manager on duty when the pounding began. However, Jiffy was otherwise occupied, arguing with one of the cooks about pastry, and thus not available to deal with the pounding.  
  
Applette, one of the new hires, as yet a mere trainee, was cleaning the coat room and turning items leftover from the night before over to the Lost and Found when the pounding began. She checked around carefully: no one else looked about to answer it, and anyway she was closest. Applette, still a little skittish from the troubles of the week before, approached the heavy, bolted door with caution.  
  
She thought she could hear someone -- a male -- talking on the other side, but couldn't tell what he was saying. Applette swallowed once and muttered a quick prayer to the guardian angels of bit characters before unbolting the door and cracking it open.  
  
No sooner had she unlatched it than the door slammed open forcefully, bowling her over and leaving the poor girl flat on her back, completely open to any kind of hostile entities that might burst through the entrance. She hoped the rest of the staff would avenge her death, and screwed her eyes shut.  
  
"Oi! Excuse me, li'l missy, I seem to have the wrong address," she heard Death say. Death had an Australian accent. "I'm lookin' for Fat Cat's."  
  
"What's the problem, Monty?" Now this made no sense. Did Death have an assistant with a ridiculously high-pitched voice? Applette decided to risk a peek.  
  
Standing over her was one of the largest mice she had ever seen. He was almost as big as Snout, and wore a raincoat of some kind, although it was sunny outside. As big as he was, she was sure he could dress however he wanted. Applette was vaguely aware of other figures behind him, but the big mouse filled her field of vision.  
  
"I think we've got the wrong giant metal cat, Chipper," the big mouse said. Applette cautiously rose to her feet. "See?" he added, pointing at her.  
  
"No," she said, her special training in helpfulness betraying her. "This is Fat Cat's. Can I, uh... help... you?" she asked nervously.  
  
Applette became aware of a blonde mouse, normal-sized thank heavens, and a chipmunk in a hat. And behind them, too, were cops. Lots and lots of cops.  
  
"We're here to arrest everybody on account of this place is a front for a criminal mastermind," the big mouse explained genially. "Nothing personal, understand," he added as a police officer handcuffed Applette and led her outside.  
  
"What? I don't understand," Applette cried over her shoulder as they took her away. She'd never heard of Fat Cat's before Jiffy hired her. "Criminal mastermind? You don't mean Snout, do you?"  
  
"Golly," said the blonde, ignoring her. "It's so much cleaner than last time!" She knelt and examined the carpeting. "I think this has been professionally cleaned!"  
  
The chipmunk in the hat nodded. "Yes. It's also been redecorated. See, someone ripped out the last two rows of slot machines and expanded the snack bar area. Hmm... see that pile of mouse-sized cleaning apparatus on the bar?"  
  
"What does it mean? Do you think Fat Cat was bought out?" the blonde asked the chipmunk as the big mouse and the police officers began to spread out into the casino. (Applette had lost track of the conversation by this point, as she was outside being led away by the law.)  
  
"No, you can see the main staircase there hasn't been changed by the renovations. If there weren't still a cat with an upstairs office, the first thing you'd want to do to fix up this area is take out that huge staircase and put in more gaming tables. I bet you could get another six slot machines if you did that." Chip gestured vaguely in the direction of the stairs.  
  
Gadget studied the staircase and environs for a few tenths of a second. "Seven," she said decisively. "Or maybe nine. It would depend on whether that's a load-bearing wall, because..." Gadget stopped, and shrugged, realizing it wasn't important. "What do you think, Chip?"  
  
"My theory -- sorry about infringing on your inalienable civil rights, but it'll all get sorted out in the wash," he told a passing workmouse as a Staten City police officer led him outside. "My theory," he continued, "is that we're too late. Pretty clearly, the Hand either made these changes or hired someone to make these changes. Probably hired someone, since he's definitely not trained as a restaurant manager. Then, Fat Cat came back." Chip paused to sniff the air, then bent over and picked up a light gray cat hair. "See? He's shedding. Fat Cat probably scared the Hand off and left whoever he hired in charge, since they seemed to be doing a good job... Yes," he reflected, "the casino no longer looks especially like a badly-run front for a major criminal organization."  
  
"The only question now is who the Hand put in charge, and whether they'll cooperate. Pretty clearly it was somemouse from Staten; that girl wouldn't have been hired by another cat or rat or iguana. Maybe a chipmunk or squirrel... I wonder..." Chip trailed off, and Gadget could almost hear the gears turning. "Well," he said. "We'll see. I hope this doesn't take too long. They're going to have trouble with Fat Cat." He sat on the stoop and pulled out his notebook, compiling a list of possible names (Jiffy was at the top, Claire quite a ways down).  
  
It wasn't a long wait. The police had fanned out quickly and effectively, easily apprehending all the workers on duty. Fat Cat, convinced he was for once in the right, threatened extensive legal action but let the squirse have their fun for the nonce. When he was cornered in the kitchen, Jiffy was agitated, but went quietly; his natural respect for cleanliness, order, and courtesy made disobeying a police officer unthinkable.  
  
"I'm just worried about Claire," he was saying as they led him away. "She's just a tad... excitable... and if you wake her up with a less-than-totally-splendid methodology, like with shouts and grapplings and things, she might, you know, take the whole bursting-into-her-temporary-bedroom thingy the, you know, wrong way... I wouldn't want anybody to get hurt while trying whole-heartedly to do their very important job as officers of the right-necessary law..."   
  
"Y'mean this one here?" Monterey Jack emerged from the stairwell, holding Claire by the scruff of her neck, at arm's length with one hand. She seemed undamaged, and was in fact swinging her limbs wildly, no doubt in a hopeless attempt to escape her custodian's grip and attack him. Her feet were at least two inches off the ground. Monty Jack, too, appeared unhurt.   
  
Jiffy mentally upgraded Monty from a "Mister" to a "Mister, sir."  
  
  
18. EPILOG -- AFTER THE RAID  
  
Jiffy and Claire were eventually cleared of all charges, as were Snout, Mole, Prickles, Wart, and pretty much everyone else in the casino. Noah wasn't there, so he wasn't arrested. After it was all over, Fat Cat hired Eel, Morey, and Eel, one of Staten City's most reputable and expensive firms. The lawyers argued, in a series of briefs citing 'City of Staten v. Nightsword' that the police had exceeded their authority in attempting to spread the rule of law out of the city proper.  
The Rescue Rangers and the officers in charge of the sting operation had an eloquent and reasonable explanation for their actions, which will be explained in the third and final section of the text, "Fall Down." "Fall Down" is an examination of The Plan version 2.0, the possible ending of the dream, the trouble an absurdly inept engineer can get into, and what Noah was up to and why. Thank you and goodnight.  
  
Everything was, in fact, eventually fine. Jill obtained a full academic scholarship and became a social worker; she somehow resisted the siren call of aerospace engineering. Mepps ate many hamburgers. Prickles eventually spoke a line. Jiffy and Claire fell in love, but not with each other. 


End file.
